


The Rules of Desire

by pasdexcuses



Series: Rules [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has always been good at figuring out what people need and how to give it to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
>  **Notes:** First of all, thank you to my wonderful betas, digthewriter and tavia_d! You guys were amazing *hugs*
> 
> On a different note, a while ago I went on a quest to find H/D praise kink and, to my utter dismay, found nothing. This propelled me to ask for help — my subsequent [ask on dicta_contrion’s blog](http://dictacontrion.tumblr.com/post/130915323774/hey-dicta-ive-got-a-bit-of-a-specific-rec) birthed quite the discussion on praise kink within the H/D community. But while I searched frantically, I also started writing my own fic. I’d been meaning to write something like this for about three years but never got around to it until now.

**I.**

The room is black and white. There are a couple of sturdy chains hanging from the ceiling and a set of d-rings right below them on the padded floor.

Right now, there is also a naked Harry Potter standing in the middle of it. He has his eyes trained on the floor and his shoulders are a rigid line as he stands, waiting. These are not good signs.

“Colour?” Draco asks.

“Green,” Potter answers.

Nodding, Draco circles the man, studying his body for the right place to start. However, the more Draco stares at him, the more the tension on Potter’s shoulders bothers him. He taps Potter’s shoulder with the tip of his wand, ordering, “Relax.”

Potter’s shoulders hunch in what can only be described as a poor attempt to force himself to unwind. Draco sighs. He still hasn’t got a clue why Potter even agreed to let him do this. He could’ve chosen anyone in Pansy’s club. Anyone else who didn’t have a history of animosity with him.

When Draco came into the negotiation room earlier tonight, Pansy and Potter had already talked things over. Draco secretly suspects Pansy had a hand in convincing Potter to take him. To Draco, Potter only outlined his hard limits — no blood, no permanent marks — and the things he enjoyed the most — floggers, paddles and anything involving smacking. Potter didn’t use the proper term and one quick glance at his file told Draco the man was rather new to the scene. So Draco asked about it. Potter’s answer was a defensive, “I’ve been flogged before; I know what I like.”

Draco gave Pansy a look that he hoped conveyed his uncertainty on the matter of taking Potter on as a sub. Pansy returned it with a stare of her own that simply said _trust me_. It was because Draco chose to trust her that now they are here, with Potter standing naked and waiting.

Draco waves his wand and the navy leather cuffs on Potter’s ankles are attached to the d-rings on the floor. With another wave of Draco’s wand, the matching cuffs on Potter’s wrists are attached to the hanging chains.

“Why are you here?” Draco asks, putting down his wand to pick up one of his lighter leather floggers.

Potter remains silent for a moment, and Draco is not surprised. He also avoided the question back in negotiations, which had raised another red flag in Draco’s mind.

“Potter,” Draco prompts, running the leather up his calf.

He watches Potter swallow hard before he gives an answer, “I want you to hurt me.”

“Anyone could hurt you.” Draco’s standing right in front of him, and yet Potter refuses to meet his eyes. “But you chose to come to a club, and then you asked specifically for a dom.” Potter gulps. “So, let’s try again, why are you here?”

Draco didn’t press the issue in negotiations because a) he doubted Potter would’ve given an honest answer unless he was pressed hard, and b) the information was not, strictly speaking, necessary. It does make things easier, though. Generally speaking, knowing why someone is coming to him for these sorts of services helps Draco give them what they need.

Potter is, again, quiet for a while. Draco steps further into his personal space to tilt his chin just the tiniest bit. “Look at me,” he orders. Potter meets Draco’s eyes, defiant. But when Draco asks again, his eyes fall close.

“I…” he starts, licking his lips. Then, in a lower tone than before, “I don’t want control.”

It’s a start, Draco reckons. Considering how much it took Potter to actually say the words, Draco feels the need to say, “Good boy.”

The reaction these words get from Potter is unexpected, to say the least. He goes pink in the cheeks, his entire body shuddering. When Draco looks down, Potter’s cock has started getting hard. It’s the sort of reaction Draco has learnt to expect from more experienced subs, subs who are eager to please and who soak up praise like a sponge. He had not expected this from Potter, who is fairly new to the scene, and who has strong opinions on free will.

Draco allows Potter a moment to collect himself before he starts. When the first blow hits his back, Potter jerks but the restraints keep him in place. After a couple of experimental strikes, Draco starts warming up Potter’s skin with the flogger with soft, even blows. Potter doesn’t jerk after the first hit. Instead, he remains quiet, perfectly still as Draco administers the flogger with expertise.

It allows Draco to bask in the moment, allows him to appreciate the shades Potter’s skin takes on. Potter is still half-hard, which is statement to how much he actually enjoys the pain. His cock, uncut and turning a little pink at the tip, is a thing of beauty. Draco wants to reach down and wank him. However, while Potter didn’t mention sex as a limit of any sort, he also didn’t mention it as part of his enjoyment. So Draco contents himself with watching, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realises he can’t remember the last time he truly admired a body like this.

He’s not really thinking about Potter’s earlier reaction. Mostly, he just feels like vocalising his own satisfaction.

He says, “You look pretty like this.” Experimentally, he hits Potter harder. Potter’s breath hitches, but he remains otherwise still. “You’re being so good for me,” Draco says. Another blow, and Potter barely reacts. “Such a good boy, Harry.”

The ‘Harry’ slips out of his mouth on accident but it manages to do what the flogger hasn’t been able to do since they started. It makes Potter jerk against his restraints, the chains rattling harder than they have all night. His cock is now standing to full attention, as though Draco’s words had grabbed him by the balls and yanked hard.

If this were anyone else, Draco would’ve made a comment on it. But something about the way Potter holds himself stiffly tells Draco that Potter is not entirely pleased with his own reactions.

He settles on spreading out his praise as he deals more frequent and heavier blows, watching Potter’s skin grow redder and redder under the leather tails.

“Colour?” Draco asks again, before he picks up the pace.

“Green,” Potter answers without hesitation.

“Bend forward,” Draco orders. “As far as you can manage.”

The restraints don’t allow for much movement, but Potter manages to bend just enough to have his arse sticking out, in perfect position for Draco to strike. He massages Potter’s red cheeks, garnering the first moan of the session. Draco is sorely tempted to stick a finger up his arse and hear him moan a little more. But finger-fucking was not discussed, and, anyway, sex is not their goal here.

He smacks Potter’s left cheek before taking a step back. This is why people want him, Draco thinks as he deals a precise blow that falls on Potter’s arse cheek and nowhere near his balls.

“Fuck,” Potter mutters under his breath.

“Colour?” Draco asks, just to be safe.

“Green.”

Nodding, Draco gets back to the task at hand. He deals blow after blow, harder each time until Potter’s breath becomes shallow.

“You’re doing really well,” Draco offers, massaging the reddened skin between blows. “You’re so pliant for me, Harry.”

Potter jerks hard again, and Draco takes a moment before he switches angles. From where he stands, he can see that Potter’s cock is not only swollen and pink, it has also started leaking. It wouldn’t take long to make him come like this. Draco reckons he could even get Potter to beg for it. He’s tempted, sorely tempted, to do just that.

But they only discussed flogging, and Draco moves on.

The session runs for longer than Draco anticipated. He would’ve never imagined that Potter, of all people, would be able to take as much as he does. It’s clear he enjoys the pain, gets something like a mix of relief and pleasure out of it. But that’s not enough to bring Potter to the sharper edges of his headspace. Draco is perfectly confident that if he hadn’t uttered a single word, Potter would’ve remained in perfect control.

Sure, Potter’s skin would’ve reached its current stunning palette of colours — bright red spots near small, purpling bruises — with or without Draco’s words. His body would’ve probably been as twitchy with all the effort, even if Draco had remained silent throughout. But the way his stare is lost, like he’s there in the room but not really, that, Draco is sure, is the result of slowly pushing Potter’s right buttons.

“Good boy,” Draco says, and Potter almost purrs.

Replacing the flogger with his wand in his hand, Draco undoes the restraints. He stands in front of Potter, anticipating the moment he stumbles forward on gelatine legs.

“I’ve got you,” Draco says, using the couple of inches he has on Potter to hold him steady. “You were great, Harry,” he says, petting the messy black hair.

Potter nuzzles the side of Draco’s neck, mumbling something that sounds like “sit”. Draco leads them to one of the benches in the room. Potter’s breath is still coming fast, and he’s not exactly clinging to Draco, but he’s keeping Draco close by.

They stay like that for a while. If Draco felt more comfortable around him, he would’ve pulled Potter’s head onto his lap, so he could thread his fingers through the mass of messy hair until Potter fell asleep. The thought surprises Draco. He hasn’t _wanted_ to care for a sub in some time. Aftercare is more of a perfunctory act on Draco’s part. He hasn’t got anything out of it, not lately anyway.

At some point, however, Potter starts coming back to himself. Draco can tell by the widening distance between them.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asks.

“Fine.”

“It’s late,” Draco says. “How are you getting home?”

Potter fixes him with a stare. “Apparition.”

“Is someone waiting for you?”

Potter’s stare quickly turns into a glare. “That’s none of your business.”

“I didn’t—” Draco starts, “look, that was a relatively intense session, and you’re gonna come down hard.”

“I can take care of myself, Malfoy.”

Nodding, Draco considers letting the conversation drop. But because he’s never known how to quit while he’s ahead, he adds, “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“And you’re what?” Potter says, volume rising. “Offering to babysit me?”

“No, I just—”

“I don’t _need_ you,” Potter all but spats.

And that’s about the last stroke for Draco. He returns Potter’s glare with one of his own. “Then get out,” he orders, voice steady, commanding.

Potter doesn’t need to be told twice. He collects his clothes with a flick of his own wand and Disapparates to Merlin knows where.

Later, in his own bed, Draco attempts to go over the night and figure out where things went wrong. But he can’t. Didn’t he do exactly what Potter wanted? Didn’t he get Potter exactly where he wanted to go?

 

Draco doesn’t see Potter after that night. Days blend into weeks that blend into months. Pansy shakes her head at him when it becomes clear Potter is not going to show up at her club any time soon.

“What did you do to him?” she asks one day.

“Nothing,” Draco answers. “I mean, nothing he hadn’t asked me for. You know perfectly well I’d never—”

“I know, I know,” Pansy says and sighs. She looks past Draco and around the club. “I was so sure we’d get more interesting people if he joined.”

“Don’t tell me I’m starting to bore you,” Draco says, in mock pain. “Oh, how you’d hurt me!”

“If you were willing to sub for me again…” she says, voice wistfully trailing off.

“That was a long time ago, Pans.”

“Indeed, Mr Malfoy.” She claps him on the back. “I’d better do some rounds,” she says. “Someone told me there’s a new kid on the block, and I have to make sure no one throws him into the lion’s den. Well, at least not accidentally.”

She winks at Draco before taking her leave, and he watches her hips sway as she goes to mingle. They’d come into the scene together, had stayed a couple almost a year after that. But, as it turned out, they were not exactly compatible. Sometimes, he misses the way being around her used to ground him. Most times, though, he wishes he could have what she had with him, that ease that comes with years of practise.

The truth is, after his break up with Pansy, Draco hasn’t been able to keep a steady, let alone a monogamous, relationship with anyone. He’s wondered for some time if it was simply a matter of him not being suitable to be a dom. But that was not it. He’s good at it because he’s always been good at knowing what people want. It’s more like… Like he can’t quite click with anyone. So instead, he often seeks more than one partner, creating a patchwork, of sorts, where a new sub will fill in the voids another sub couldn’t.

It’s not ideal, he knows. Pansy constantly gives him hell for it. But whenever Draco enters a more or less constant relationship, he makes sure to lay out the terms of his commitment. Or rather, as Pansy likes to point out, his lack thereof.

 

It’s been almost two months since Potter showed up at Pansy’s club when Pansy asks Draco to stay at the club late and help her close up.

“Must I?” Draco whines. He’s been looking forward to a full night’s rest.

His business, his actual tea business that pays for all his bills and half of those of the club, has been rather busy lately. Between new Ministry regulations on taxes and the new Muggle Prime Minister, the trade of spices and herbs in and out of England has not only become ridiculously expensive, it has also slowed down the production rate. All Draco can do is negotiate with clients and providers, day in and day out. He is exhausted.

“You don’t have to,” Pansy replies, her voice coaxing him away from his business troubles. She adds, “It’s your choice,” though the way she says it implies there’ll be hell to pay if he doesn’t.

“Fine,” Draco agrees reluctantly. “What’s going on anyway?”

“Well, Zacharias Smith,” Pansy starts.

Draco groans. “Not him, he’s awful.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Pansy says. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Draco rolls his eyes dramatically, “Zacharias Smith has asked permission to put on a private show, for a small audience. And somehow word got out, and now it looks like I’ll have a packed club tonight.”

“What sort of show?” Draco asks warily.

Pansy shrugs. “No idea.”

“Liar.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you they made me sign a binding magical contract?”

“They?” Draco asks. “So the other half of they must be quite the important someone.”

“I believe Mr Smith does all right on his own.”

“Oh, please,” Draco says. “Nobody cares for Smith, he’s a lousy chaser at best.”

“He might be lousy in Quidditch but—”

“He’s even worse in here,” Draco finishes for her. “I know you know he’s the worst dom we’ve got, and I still can’t believe you let him hang around.”

“He serves a purpose, darling,” Pansy says.

“Well, whoever his new plaything is, I wish them luck.”

“Now, that’s the spirit!”

 

Pansy was right about the club being packed. Draco can’t remember the last time he saw the place this full and he’s there almost every night, whether it is to help Pansy out or to be there for himself. The Zacharias Smith show is only for a handful of people, but everyone else on the main floor is staring around, trying to spot something out of the ordinary. As if Pansy would let anyone cast a glimpse at Zacharias and his partner.

Draco rinses out the glasses at the bar whilst trying very hard not to roll his eyes at everyone who is trying to find a way to find out. Draco is ninety-per cent sure Pansy herself started this particular rumour.

At a quarter past ten, one of the new bartenders comes to relieve Draco of the tedious job. But not before he lets Draco know that Pansy is waiting upstairs, room five.

Draco knocks twice on the door, a habit he picked up when he first started sneaking around with Pansy and never quite got rid of.

“It’s open, darling!” Pansy calls.

She is sitting in front of a mirror, fixing her hair and clasping on the sort of earrings that don’t require pierced ears. _Easier to take off, safer, too_ , she always says.

“What is it?” Draco asks.

“I figured you’d be getting bored at the bar right about now,” Pansy answers. “So, thought I’d sneak you into Zacharias Smith’s little soirée.”

“Won’t you get in trouble for it?”

“I get a plus one,” Pansy replies.

“And you chose me?” Draco says. “I’m so touched, Pansy. If only I gave a fuck.”

“Trust me,” Pansy assures him, in that voice of hers that always gets her what she wants. “You really want to be there for this one.”

Draco trusts Pansy with his life. And more than that, she knows exactly what Draco likes, knows exactly how to push his buttons. Still, he is dubious that anything involving the poor excuse of a dom that is Zacharias Smith would be worth his time. He agrees nonetheless, because Pansy went through all the trouble and it’d be rude not to.

They slip into the room quietly because the session has already started. Pansy lives by the rules of the fashionably late, and Draco doubts that any amount of uncomfortable moments will ever change that. Whoever is subbing for Smith is naked, his back to Pansy and Draco. There is something familiar about that arse that Draco can’t quite place. And Zacharias Smith is, as per usual, doing a poor job of topping.

Smith’s sub has his legs spread wide, the upper half of his body bent over a table. Smith is administering a terrible combination of boot worship and verbal humiliation that is almost hilariously misguided. Even without seeing his face, Draco can tell Smith’s partner is barely getting anything out of this. The verbal abuse is gratuitous, the boot worship a twisted parody of what a real dom could do.

Draco throws Pansy an unimpressed stare. He starts to move towards the exit when Pansy grabs his arm.

“Don’t you want to see who it is?” Pansy asks, dragging him in the opposite direction so that they end up facing the front of Smith’s partner.

Draco cannot believe his eyes when he sees a pair of bright green eyes staring back at him. It’s clear from Potter’s face that whatever Smith is trying, it is not doing a single thing for him. He plays with Potter’s balls, sure. And Potter moans diligently, because even with the incompetent Zacharias Smith, somewhere deep in him, he wants to please. But it’s not getting him anywhere other than closer to an orgasm that may or may not be denied in the end.

“What in the bloody hell,” Draco curses under his breath.

There’s a part of him that wants to step in the middle of the circle and tell Smith to fuck off, get his nasty hands off Potter. Because Potter is the sort of sub that only deserves the very best. He knows because even two months ago, when he’d been arguably inexperienced, Potter had been deliciously pliant. And Smith’s string of nonsensical abuses is starting to make Draco more than a little angry. _Idiot_ , he thinks.

The other part of Draco, the smarter part, remains right where he is until Smith starts giving indication that the scene is about to end. He is the first person out the door as he makes a beeline for the bar to order himself a double firewhisky.

Pansy finds him downing his glass in one go not long after.

“Why’d you let him do that!” Draco cries, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

“Because he pays well,” Pansy replies.

“That was bloody ridiculous!” Draco continues. “Anyone with a pair of eyes would’ve seen that.”

“I dunno, Potter did get to come in the end.”

“ _Come_?” The word drips with contempt when it falls from Draco’s mouth. “We both know that is never the goal here. At best, it’s a-a—”

“A happy coincidence?” Pansy supplies.

Draco sighs. A part of him wishes he hadn’t seen that. The other part wants to find Potter, grab him by the shoulders and ask what in Merlin’s name was he thinking when he agreed to let Zacharias bloody Smith to top him.

Draco lets out some more steam at Pansy’s expense, demanding how she allowed such a travesty, how she kept Potter a secret from him, how she kept herself from not jumping in the middle of the circle and ending the scene well before it actually ended.

“I guess I have more self-control than you do,” Pansy says eventually.

“I did not jump into the middle of the circle, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I did. I also noticed all the death glares you sent in Smith’s direction. I reckon everyone in the room noticed, too.”

“Fuck off,” Draco says.

“Watch it,” Pansy warns in a cool tone.

On instinct, Draco apologises. He also blushes because if this were anyone else, Draco wouldn’t even have dreamed of saying he’s sorry.

Pansy smiles kindly at him, a gentle hand on Draco’s cheek. “You were such a good boy,” she says.

Draco feels his cheeks warm up at her admission. It isn’t the first time he’s heard it, and he doubts it’ll be the last. It surprises him, sometimes, how she can still have that power over him, now that it has been almost a decade since they ended their relationship.

“Don’t think too hard, darling,” Pansy says, drawing Draco away from his thoughts.

“Do you ever wonder?” Draco asks. “About us, I mean?”

“I did, at first,” she says. “I used to think we could’ve tried harder. But us ending was for the best. We were a pair of old shoes to each other, in the end.”

“Lovely analogy.”

“We were, though. Comfortable but ultimately useless. Plus, I’ve seen you topping.”

“And?”

“And, to this day, you still take my breath away.”

“Thank you, I suppose.”

She pats his cheek before saying, “It’ll start clearing out soon. Thanks for staying.”

“Anytime,” Draco replies, and however much he complains, he always means it.

In the twenty minutes that follow, Draco watches as the club empties out. Most people have work the following morning, and those who don’t, are fully aware of the club’s regular hours. It’s when the place is mostly empty but for Pansy and Draco (or at least, as far as Draco can see), that Harry Potter comes down the stairs.

He is so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn’t realise that the only other person at the bar is Draco. Not even when he sits one seat away from Draco.

Draco, for his part, is very much aware of the situation. He doesn’t speak, however, not until Potter orders a drink and finally notices him.

Potter makes as if he’s about to leave. He searches for change in his pocket, and the window is just enough for Draco to get in a few words before Potter sprints out.

“That was quite the show you put tonight,” Draco drawls. “You enjoyed it much?”

“That’s none of your business,” Potter answers.

“You’re right,” Draco concedes. “It just didn’t look like you were enjoying much of it. Not that I’d blame you. Zacharias Smith is as incompetent a dom as you can get.” He stops to take one good look at Potter’s face. Then, “It does beg the question, _why_ did you pick him?”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Potter counters, “I’d say you’re rather invested in my personal life, Malfoy.”

“Not at all, Potter, just curious.”

“And I suppose you think you could’ve done a better job?”

From behind the counter, Pansy snorts. Draco chooses to ignore her. “Me,” Draco says, “Or anyone else with half a brain.”

Potter opens his mouth to defend his poor choice but Pansy beats him to it. “He’s right, you know,” she quips. “Every experienced person in the room was either frowning or looking distinctly appalled. Didn’t you notice? I know Mr Smith missed the whole issue entirely, but then again, he’s never been good at reading his audience.”

“I…” Potter’s voice trails. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern, either.”

“It concerns me,” Pansy says calmly, “because I want you to come back. I don’t want you believing Zacharias Smith is a true sample of our work here.”

“I didn’t meet Zacharias here,” Potter replies.

“No, but you knew he frequents my club, didn’t you? I mean, he does like to boast.”

Potter nods, once. He finally finds his galleons and makes a move to pay. Pansy shakes her head, though, refusing the money. “It’s on the house for you tonight.”

“Thanks,” Potter replies, nodding curtly at Pansy and Draco before fleeing the scene altogether.

“Now who’s gone and scared him?” Draco asks after Potter is well gone.

“Scared him?” Pansy repeats. “Oh, I don’t think so. He’ll be back, you’ll see.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Didn’t you see the little blond with the big eyes upstairs?”

“The blond with the—” And thinking about it, Draco does remember her face, and now he’s finally remembering her name. “Looney Lovegood?” he says. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

“She and Potter came in together, and she was frowning the hardest. She’ll make him come around,” Pansy asserts with confidence. Then she glances up at the clock. “Time for you to go, sweetheart.”

“I thought you wanted help closing up?”

“I lied,” Pansy confesses.

“Of course.”

“You wouldn’t have come otherwise, since I couldn’t tell you about Potter and all.”

The words ‘manipulative hag’ are hanging dangerously close to the tip of Draco’s tongue. He only manages to stop because Pansy adds, “Go on, I have a little blond waiting for me upstairs, and I did promise her she could make all the noise she wanted.”

At this Draco cannot help but chuckle. “Fine, fine. I can tell getting laid is more important than my feelings.”

“Glad we’re finally on the same page.”

“You wound me, Pans,” Draco says, clutching his chest theatrically.

He leaves thinking about what Pansy said about Potter coming back to the club even after his disastrous encounter with Smith. Perhaps precisely because of the disastrous encounter.

Draco is expecting Potter to show up because Pansy is pretty spot on about these things. What he is not expecting, however, is the owl he gets from Potter two weeks later. It contains directions for a small café and a quick note that reads ‘ _I want to talk to you in person. -H.P._ ’ The whole thing is unprecedented, and Draco almost wants to go over to Potter’s to make sure the owl wasn’t delivered to the wrong address.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

They meet in the café of Potter’s choosing, late in the afternoon. Potter is already there when Draco arrives, sitting at a table by the window. It’s a decent café, Draco supposes. Very Muggle, not too bright but not too dark either. Potter is already drinking something that, by the looks of it, is alcoholic.

Draco takes the seat across from Potter. “So,” he says.

“Want a drink?” Potter asks, calling for a waiter.

Draco doesn’t miss a beat as he orders the same as Potter is having.

“Did you find the place okay?” Potter asks.

“You gave very thorough directions,” Draco replies.

“Great.”

It’s clear to Draco that Potter is stalling. It’s almost amusing. Almost.

“You didn’t bring me here to talk about the weather,” Draco comments, sipping at his drink. Of course it’s alcohol. “You know, in case that was going to be your next question.”

Potter looks mutinous at this. “I wasn’t.”

“Why don’t we talk about why I’m really here?” Draco suggests. “This wasn’t my idea, after all.”

Potter is not quite glaring at him, but his stare is not exactly a loving one either. “Fine,” he says. “I want us to scene again.”

“I’d figured as much on my own.” Draco smirks. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Draco watches Potter vacillate. He must have pushed too hard, too fast because the next thing Potter says is, “Forget it.”

Draco wonders, for what feels like the hundredth time, why on earth Potter is so bloody stubborn.

“Why do you make this so hard on yourself?” Draco asks bluntly, he is curious but, mostly, he wants a reaction from Potter.

“I don’t,” Potter says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” Draco takes a long swig from his drink. “You’re not bloody stupid, Potter. You already know what you want from me. But you’re so busy fighting with yourself you can’t even get the words out.”

Draco levels Potter with a harsh stare, one that makes Potter turn his eyes to the table and hunch his shoulders.

“I…” Potter’s cheeks colour slightly. “It’s harder with you.”

“Are you about to tell me this went over easier with bloody Zacharias Smith?” Draco asks. “The man is a git, Potter. I do not know how you stood him long enough to negotiate your kinks, much less how you tolerated that travesty of a scene.”

Potter shrugs. “It was easy with him.”

“It’s not supposed to be _easy_ ,” Draco admonishes. “Not when you’re starting out. If it doesn’t take some work, you’re probably not doing much.”

“And you’d know so much about submission,” Potter says.

Draco does, in fact, know an awful lot about submission. But Potter doesn’t need any details of that. “I know more than you do, that’s for certain.”

“Oh, yes?” Potter says, his words a clear challenge.

“Yes,” Draco says with confidence. “I know that show Smith put up did nothing for you. Sure, you got an orgasm out of it, you can give yourself that in the shower every morning.” He pauses for a moment to let that reality sink in. He continues, “No, what you want, Potter, what you really want, is to fill that void in you that’s terribly eager to please.” Potter sits up straighter, looking stunned for a moment. He opens his mouth to argue but Draco beats him to it, “Whether you want to admit it or not, Potter, just hearing me say it makes you take notice. Think about it.”

Draco is halfway out of his chair when Potter stops him by clamping down on his wrist.

“Wait,” he says. “Listen, I just.” Potter stalls, and Draco, who has no time for this, starts tugging his own wrist out of Potter’s grip. “That night you,” he swallows, “you know. I hadn’t. It had never been like that before. And when I got home I felt…” Potter looks embarrassed for a moment as he searches for the right word. In the end he settles for, “Off. I felt off all week.”

Draco sits back down. He wants to smack Potter over the head. “I told you, you shouldn’t be alone that night,” Draco says. He seriously doubts ‘off’ conveys the full extent of what probably was sub-drop.

“And I told you I can take care of myself,” Potter counters. “And I did. Mostly.”

Draco considers calling Potter on his bullshit. If he had taken care of himself, he wouldn’t have taken so long to come back to the club. But mostly, Draco feels immensely responsible for the mess. He knowingly let Potter go that night, when he knew much better.

“Next time,” Draco starts but he’s soon interrupted.

“Next time?”

“ _If_ there’s a next time, you are not allowed to go home alone,” Draco announces.

“That’s not up to you,” Potter says, stubbornly.

“Yes, it is. If we’re doing this again, we’re doing it my way.”

“But—”

“My way, or I don’t do it,” Draco says.

“Isn’t that abuse of power?” Potter asks, a little exasperated.

“No. Abuse of power would be to ignore your limits and plough on even after you safeword out of a scene. And I promise I will never do that. This, however, is just common sense because you don’t know which way is up and which is down when it comes to this.”

“Fine,” Potter agrees, though he’s clearly still unhappy about the way the negotiation went down. “When are you free?”

“In a week, same room as the last time, you remember?” When Potter nods, Draco adds, “We won’t have to go through negotiations again, unless something has drastically changed since the last time.”

“No,” Potter replies.

“Good.”

 

The week flies by. Draco has to throw himself into a new deal with traders from India. The time not spent in a meeting room, he spends walking the greenhouses where all the tea is processed. He only has time for himself at night, but by then he’s too tired from the day, falling asleep the moment his head hits the pillow. On Friday morning, however, he realises that his scene with Potter is less than 36 hours away, and, other than distantly thinking about it throughout the week, he has not exactly prepared.

He stops by the club on his way home that afternoon, picks up Potter’s entire file and settles on his sofa to read. This is one of the reasons why people like Pansy’s club so much, Draco thinks as he opens Potter’s file. It had been Pansy’s idea, when the club was in its earlier days, almost a decade ago, to start keeping tabs on members. Originally, it’d been to make matchmaking easier. But now, even old couples use them. The files include thirteen folios of parchment, detailing almost every kink and fetish known to the scene. There is space for commenting, and Pansy has traditionally made every new member comment on at least half the categories as a requirement of joining. The files have proven incredibly useful. They help Pansy better pair her members, and help couples — who are the only ones to have access to each other’s files apart from Pansy — revisit old interests.

He is not surprised to find that Potter’s enthusiasm for pain play translates well to the parchment. Under this particular heading, there are a number of things he seems, at least on parchment, comfortable with. Anything that qualifies as impact play, Potter has listed as an interest, with particular attention to floggers and paddles. Potter has also commented under the subsections of blades and piercings. While blades appear as a hard limit — his general comment already specifies that any lasting marks are a no-go — temporary piercings he lists as a mild interest.

Everything else, however, is rather underwhelming. Draco is actually surprised Pansy allowed Potter to get away with leaving so many blanks on the form. Potter has not outlined any other interests outside of pain play; everything else is about his soft and hard limits, which Draco already knows about.

He has to stare at Potter’s file for a while before an idea starts to form in his mind.

 

On Saturday night, Potter comes into the room, strips naked on Draco’s order and stands in the exact same spot he stood well over two months ago.

“No,” Draco says. He himself is sitting down on one of the longer benches. “I’m using a paddle today,” Draco informs Potter, patting his own lap.

He’s holding out a plain wooden paddle, as if to further demonstrate what’s about to happen. The wood is smooth and dark, not too heavy, but hefty enough.

Potter frowns, not really getting Draco’s meaning for a few seconds. Draco can tell the moment everything clicks, however, because Potter’s eyes widen as he shakes his head vehemently.

“No,” Potter says, staying put. “I’m not going to—”

If this were anyone else, Draco would be very close to showing his sub what dominance really means. But that would never work with Potter. It’d only fuel him into fighting harder against the whole thing.

So, instead, Draco simply says, “Paddles are listed as a great interest in your file, so those aren’t a problem, are they?” Potter shakes his head. No, they aren’t. The problem is not the paddle. “However,” Draco continues, “if you don’t want to, you can always use your safeword.”

This makes Potter gulp, and in an instant, Draco knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“Hey,” Draco says, leaving the paddle on the bench as he gets up and walks to Potter. His tone is softer than before, he makes sure of it. “There’s no shame in using your safeword,” he tells Potter. He wants to reach out and touch him, reassure him of this. But that would be a mistake with Potter. “They exist for a reason, and we’ll talk—”

“I don’t need to use my safeword,” Potter says, determined.

“Perhaps we should leave it here today,” Draco counters.

“I’m not going to break,” Potter says, “stop treating me like I am.”

“The thing is,” Draco says, moving to where Potter left his clothes, “I don’t trust you to use your safeword when you need it.”

It is clear on Potter’s face that this takes him by surprise. Draco can feel Potter’s eyes following him about the room. He tells himself ending the scene now is better. He’s saving both of them from impending disaster.

And then Potter grabs him by the elbow. He has his eyes trained on the floor, his cheeks are pink. “Please,” he says. “I… Please.” Potter pauses, eyes closed as he collects himself. “I need this.”

The words burn the air in Draco’s lungs. Because he knows, he _knows_ how much the words are taking from Potter.

Draco’s mouth feels too dry when he asks, “Can you promise me you’ll use your safeword?”

Potter is only able to nod his reply, but that’s enough.

“Okay,” Draco says, leaving Potter’s clothes where they were. He resumes his position on the bench and waits for Potter to come to him. Once Potter is standing in front of him, Draco orders, “Head here, fold your arms under your head” pointing at his right thigh. Pointing at the space on the bench next to his left thigh, Draco orders, “Feet here.” Then, with a hand on Potter’s hip, “Arse up.”

Potter blushes as he climbs awkwardly onto Draco’s lap, muscles tense.

“You have to relax for me, Harry,” Draco says, running a hand over Potter’s back but Potter remains rigid. He touches Potter even more lightly, ghosting his fingers over his back. “I’ve got you, Harry,” Draco reassures him. “Whatever happens, I’ve got you.”

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Potter begins to loosen up under Draco’s hand. Draco warms him up with his own hand, spanking him lightly until Potter’s muscles start melting. Once Potter is no longer taut with nerves and embarrassment, Draco picks up the paddle.

“Colour?”

“Green.”

Draco starts off slowly, just as he did the time before that. With the paddle and his current leverage on Potter’s body, he’ll be concentrating on his arse.

“You probably won’t be able to sit comfortable for a few days,” Draco tells him.

It’s not a question but Potter still replies, “Green.”

“Good boy,” Draco says, smacking Potter’s arse playfully with his hands.

Draco’s words have the same effect on Potter as they did the first time they did this. Draco can feel Potter getting hard, and, with Potter’s arse so close and open to access, it takes all of Draco’s self-control not to take advantage of the situation. Someday, Draco thinks as he smacks Potter again, they’re going to have to have a talk about sexy touching.

Potter’s arse starts picking up colour, his blood pooling under his skin. Draco keeps a steady pace, giving Potter breaks and threading his fingers through Potter’s messy hair. He accelerates slowly, progressively making the breaks shorter and further apart.

Just as slowly, Potter starts coming undone in his arms. Draco calls out for colours now and again, but it’s always green. He makes sure to always check Potter’s face for signs that they should stop. But other than the distant look he starts to get, Potter seems fine throughout.

They’re nearing the ending of the session, and Draco can feel Potter reaching that headspace he struggles so hard with. Draco remembers feeling like that. Like all he needed was a single push to get him to just let go. And he wants Potter to feel like that. To know he can let go without a worry. So Draco smacks him a little harder, trying to push him over the edge, and that’s when it happens.

Potter, who has been limp, if a little shuddery, goes suddenly rigid in Draco’s arms.

“Harry?” Draco asks, stopping all movement. “Colour?”

But Potter just shakes his head, hands flying to cover his face.

“Harry,” Draco says, dropping the paddle altogether, and placing his hand on Potter’s nape instead.

Potter jerks away as though he’s been burnt, and this time, he does croak out, “Red,” breath hitching. “Red,” he says again, shoulders now shaking violently.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Draco says, petting Potter as best as he can, but Potter is shaking so violently in his arms. “You did really well for me, Harry,” Draco tells him.

And that’s it. The words finally break whatever was holding Potter from crying. Soon, Draco can feel the tears through his own shirt as Potter clings to it, sobbing uncontrollably.

It takes a long time for Potter to start calming down. Even after the tears stop, he still hiccups and shivers. He holds fast onto Draco’s shirt, as though he’s afraid Draco will leave.

“I’ve got you, Harry,” Draco says, over and over.

Draco has no idea how long they remain like that. But eventually, Potter begins to regain control over himself. And the more in control Potter begins to feel, the more distance he tries to put between himself and Draco. Just like last time.

“I’m sorry,” Potter says after a while. He makes a move to sit up, but Draco holds him in place.

“It happens more often than you’d think,” Draco says, and it’s true. Especially with people who don’t give themselves a regular outlet.

Potter pushes against Draco’s grip, harder this time. “I should—”

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘go’, you can forget about it.”

“But—”

This time, he does not intend to let Potter have a say in the matter. “You just spent over an hour crying into my shirt, do you honestly think you can stand on your legs and just walk out, let alone make sure you make it through the night without feeling… what was the word you used? Oh, yes, _off_.”

Potter stops fighting for a moment, and Draco likes to think his words have finally got through to him. Then, “Can I at least sit up?”

Draco loosens his grip, allowing Potter enough space next to him on the bench. Draco picks up his wand to summon Potter’s clothes, then summons a glass of water.

“Get those on,” he orders. When Potter is done dressing, he pushes the glass of water into Potter’s hands. “Drink it.”

Diligently, Potter drinks the entire glass. He starts looking more like himself after that. Draco reckons they’re okay to move.

“Where do you want to go?” Draco prompts. At Potter’s blank stare, he elaborates, “Your flat or mine?”

Draco can see the protest in Potter’s eyes the instant Potter opens his mouth.

“You thought last time was bad?” Draco starts. “You have no idea how hard you’re going to come down from this one. I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

Potter must realise he’s lost the battle because he nods and says, “My place, then.”

“Let’s grab a bite before,” Draco suggests.

 

They end up getting takeaway Chinese because all the places around the club are closed and the first Muggle place they happen to find is Chinese. But the parlour looks dingy, at best.

“You take me to the nicest places,” Draco mutters under his breath.

“No one’s asking you to stay,” Potter retorts.

“You’re a git,” Draco says, but he moves to the counter to place his order.

Potter ends up paying for the both of them because Draco has never owned any Muggle money, and it’s not like he could very well start now. Bags in hand, they catch the Knight Bus and get off in one of the nicer parts of the London suburbs, where the trees are green at this time of the year and the flowers have spread their petals to release their sweet scent into the world.

Potter’s place is not so much a flat as it is a small house, identical, from the colour of its bricks to its windowsills, to every other house on the street. Potter stops on his doorstep, a set of Muggle keys in his hand.

He considers Draco for a moment before finally saying, “Sorry for the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

This makes Draco frown, not because of the mess, but because he distinctly recalls telling Potter he was not, under any circumstance, returning home alone. Draco doesn’t even try to argue, again, over this point. In fact, the point is soon forgot the moment he steps into the war zone that is Potter’s home.

There are parchments everywhere, on the floor, spilled on the dining table and on the sofa. Parchments stuck on walls and parchments forgot under chairs and, “How do you even walk here, Potter?” Draco asks incredulously.

Shrugging, Potter replies, “I manage.”

“Don’t you have an elf or something?” Draco continues. “You have a wand, don’t you?”

“There’s no point in organising when it’s going to end up exactly the same the following day,” Potter says by way of an explanation.

“What do you mean?” Draco asks, still stunned by the utter disaster. “Don’t you have an office?”

“Yes, of course I have an office,” Potter replies, a little exasperated. Then, “It’s none of your business anyway.”

“No, but Merlin, how can anyone live like this.”

“Listen,” Potter says, now clearly about to lose his temper. “This wasn’t even my idea to begin with. If I recall correctly—”

Draco turns sharply to Potter. He finishes Potter’s sentence for him, “You were being a prat who knows nothing of these things. Now,” he faces the sofa once more, picking up a copy of the _Prophet_ , which is almost three weeks old. “Really?” he asks Potter.

At Potter’s shrug, Draco loses whatever little patience he had left with regards to Potter’s mess. He takes out his wand and before Potter can protest, he waves it around. The journals stack neatly on a cleared space on Potter’s dining table, by date.

“I’d do it with the parchments, but I dunno what’s important,” Draco offers.

Potter groans, annoyed as he takes a seat on the now less-cluttered sofa.

“Why are you so stubborn?” Draco asks. “I’m only trying to help.”

If the way Potter’s jaw sets is any indication, Potter has understood the full meaning of Draco’s words. He thrusts one of the takeaway bags in Draco’s general direction, proceeding to start in on his own food.

“We’ll have to talk about tonight eventually, you know,” Draco says, once it becomes clear to him that Potter is going to do his level best to stuff his face with food for as long as he can manage just so he won’t have to talk.

Potter keeps eating as though Draco never said a word. Eventually, though, he does say, “You’re presuming we’ll do this again.”

“Even if you never want to see me again,” Draco starts slowly, for once not sure whether Potter actually means to never ever do this again, “it’s just good practise, some might even say common courtesy, to discuss a scene when someone safewords out of it.”

“Maybe I’m not feeling particularly courteous.”

Draco scrubs a hand over his face. Bloody hell, he thinks. Bloody Potter and his bloody impossible life. It’s almost enough to drive Draco straight out the door. That he chooses to stay is a testament to how much he’s learnt about being a dom in the past ten years.

They eat the rest of their food in silence. A part of Draco genuinely wonders if there’s any point in doing this at all. Potter seems fine on his own. Draco could leave and Potter might not even notice. That part, however, starts getting smaller by the minute when Potter starts yawning, his body unconsciously listing to Draco’s side.

“Potter, come on,” Draco says, nudging Potter to a standing position. “Bedtime.”

Potter mumbles something unintelligible as Draco drags him to the master bedroom. Potter flops on his own bed, and Draco reckons Potter might just fall asleep with his shoes on.

“I trust you can undress yourself?” Draco says, stirring Potter to a sitting position.

Potter nods and Draco leaves him to it while he pads the washroom. He splashes water on his face and takes a couple of deep breaths. When he returns to the bedroom, Draco finds Potter safely under his covers. On impulse, he walks over to make sure Potter is asleep.

Potter’s breathing is coming soft, regular, but when Draco reaches out to touch his cheek, Potter’s eyes flutter open.

And Potter must be feeling very sleepy because he takes Draco’s hand and asks, very quietly, “Will you stay?”

After all the fighting that Potter’s put up regarding the subject, that he can force himself to ask. Well, there’s no doubt in Draco’s mind that it’s because he either really, really wants it, or... Or, more than wanting it, he needs it.

Nodding, Draco lifts the covers, pushing Potter to the side. “Scoot,” he says. “You’re on my side.”

Draco likes to think that if Potter had any energy left, he would’ve rolled his eyes at him. As it is, however, Potter simply does as he’s told.

 

He must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because the next time he wakes up, it’s to the sounds of someone screaming himself sore. Draco thinks it’s him doing all the screaming; it wouldn’t be the first time he wakes himself up like this. But he soon realises the screaming hasn’t stopped, and one Harry Potter is tossing and turning next to him.

Moving closer to Potter, Draco grabs his shoulder, shaking him until Potter stops. When Potter wakes up, he has a disoriented look in his eyes.

Before disorientation can turn to full-blown panic at the sight of another person next to him, Draco grabs Potter by the waist, spooning him. “It was a nightmare, Harry,” he says into the shell of Potter’s ear.

Potter is tense in his arms, and it takes a combination of Draco petting his side and time for him to relax back into sleep.

 

The following morning, Draco leaves Potter’s place almost as soon as he wakes up. He leaves a note for Potter on his nightstand, explaining he’s got business to take care of. He also asks Potter to meet him in the same café as before, in two days’ time.


	3. Chapter 3

** III. **

Draco arrives at the café earlier than he’d expected, Muggle money in his pocket. He probably has more than he needs but something tells him constant exposure to Potter inevitably leads to needing the funny paper notes.

He finds them a table by the window, orders himself a glass of water and waits. He waits until it’s time, and then has to wait longer because Potter is late.

Potter is six minutes late to be precise, which in fairness, is nothing. But he likes the look of disbelief on Potter’s face when Draco mentions it.

“I ordered us some tea,” Draco says as Potter sits across from him.

“Tea?” Potter repeats, and it is plain on his face that he is after something stronger.

“Yes, tea,” Draco says. And before Potter can get any ideas, he adds, “People who are late don’t get to place their drinks order.”

“I was six minutes late,” Potter says, again. “Six minutes, Malfoy.”

“Late is late,” Draco counters.

They stare at each other until their waitress breaks their line of vision with two pots of tea.

The moment she is gone, Draco stops beating around the bush. “Are you ready to talk about it?” he asks.

At this, Potter looks up. “I don’t know if I have an answer for you.”

It takes Potter a moment to realise Draco is not going to say anything until he explains himself.

Then Potter says, “I’d been curious for a while, about floggers especially. So I found several strangers who’d hurt me without blabbing about it to the _Prophet_. I didn’t think I needed it but...” Potter stops himself, taking a deep breath. “The more I did it, the more I became aware of how much I wanted it. But I never did more than one scene with the same person. They never felt right. By the time I’d come to terms with the fact that I liked the pain, I hired a proper dom.

“She came to my place, and the scene started pretty much the same as the others had. Except a few minutes into the session she… She did something the others never did. And I felt myself being pushed into something entirely new. And it was exciting, at first. I felt like, for the first time, I could truly let myself go, if I tried hard enough. I almost did, too.” Potter pauses again. He’s not meeting Draco’s eyes, and Draco is on the verge of ordering him to do so. But that would make things unnecessarily hard. “Her alarm went off, to indicate our time was over. She looked really disappointed, even asked me if I wanted to extend our session, no extra charges. But I’d already been thrown out of that space. Even then, I knew I wouldn’t be able to go back once I crossed that line. So, I declined. She gave me a card to Parkinson’s club before she left, told me to use it when I was ready.”

“And that’s how you ended up in Pansy’s negotiation room?” Draco asks.

Potter nods. “I didn’t go for a few months, wasn’t sure I really wanted to get into the scene. When I eventually made it there, I went looking for something like what I’d already had. And then Pansy matched me with you.”

“Of course she did,” Draco quips. Pansy has a sort of sixth sense about these things.

“I… I was okay with you hurting me, I guess,” Potter says. “You were closer to the dom I’d hired than any of the other randoms I’ve scened with. So, I kept reminding myself to keep my own mind. It wasn’t hard, not when I remembered it was you, and…” His voice trails off for a moment. He gives Draco a grimace that Draco takes to mean ‘and all our antagonistic history’. “And then,” Potter says, eyes closed once more. “And then you… Well, you didn’t insult me, is the thing. You spoke like you cared, and before I knew it, I was forgetting all about hating you and was back on the edge of that space again. Between the release I was getting from the flogging and-and just the way you talked to me, Merlin, you eased me into it, and I didn’t even realise it had happened. You were _hurting_ me, but if you’d asked, I would’ve begged you for more. I knew that. How fucked up is that?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Draco feels very compelled to answer, “It’s not. It’s—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Potter interrupts. “There’s no shame in feeling the way I felt, right? No shame in being the way I am. But you were hurting me, and all I wanted was to give you more.” Potter pauses, eyes trained on the table. His next words are almost a whisper, a dirty secret, “You were hurting me, and I wanted to keep you close.”

“Was that your first time experiencing subspace?” Draco asks.

Potter nods his answer. “I didn’t even know it was a thing,” he says, making Draco’s stomach churn.

Looking back on it, he should’ve been more careful. He should’ve gathered from Potter’s lack of professional experience that he’d never been pushed so far. But Potter had seemed to just fall into it, like he’d done it a million times before. Like subspace was second nature to him by now.

“I’m sorry,” Draco offers. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

But Potter shakes his head. “I didn’t know what it was. Wouldn’t have been able to tell you about it, even if you’d asked.”

Still, Draco thinks, it was his responsibility to know better, which reminds Draco of his other big mistake that night. “I even let you go home alone," he says.

“I came down hard,” Potter admits. “I spent the night shivering, feeling so tired. The entire week I felt like I had caught a bad cold. And...” He looks down at the table again. “And the only person I wanted around was you.”

Draco understands the contradiction. He understands how Potter felt. So he says, “That’s normal. If anything, it’s expected.”

Potter’s reply comes quick, “No, it isn’t.” He looks straight into Draco’s eyes when he says, “It’s pathetic, to want something that much. To not—”

That, right there, is Potter’s problem. “It’s not pathetic,” Draco corrects him. Potter opens his mouth to protest but Draco beats him to it. “It’s not,” he repeats. “You experienced sub-drop, which is only natural after intense scenes.” Potter scoffs at this, but it only makes Draco talk more. “It was made worse by the lack of aftercare.”

Potter sticks out his chin in defiance. “I never wanted to feel that way again.”

“Well, I can’t promise it won’t happen ever again,” Draco says. “It’s a natural consequence after your body releases large quantities of endorphins. It’s why you can’t go home alone without aftercare. It’s why anyone with experience will insist on it.”

“Right,” Potter says, and Draco can tell he’s still fighting against the concept in his own mind.

“So, the other night?” Draco prompts him.

“I told you,” Potter answers. “I never wanted to feel like that again, and I knew, if I let you push me into that space, I would.” He takes a deep breath. “You-you startled me, near the end. You were slowing down and then you hit me harder. I liked it, I really did, but you startled me out of my own mind. And I realised where I was headed and couldn’t. I couldn’t go on.”

“Is that when you used your safeword?”

“Yes,” Potter says, swallowing hard. “I wanted to stop cold turkey. And when you did just that, I…” Potter trails off. He brings his hands to his face, pressing his fingers hard into his closed eyes. It takes Potter a couple of deep breaths, and Draco wants to move closer to him so badly. He wants to place a hand on Potter’s arm to let him know it’s okay. But this is not the time or place. “I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t control my own body, and the more you held me,” Potter says, “the more I just wanted to completely let go.” Potter looks out the window for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “You let me cry into your shirt for an entire hour.”

“Of course I did,” Draco says. What else was he supposed to do? Leave him there? “We do these things together, Harry,” Draco says, his voice as soft as he can manage. “We’re like any other couple when we’re together.”

“A couple?” Harry parrots. “We barely see each other. We—”

“But when we’re together, the whole point is for us to trust each other. To support each other. Because otherwise, this doesn’t work.”

“The other night,” Potter says, and this time, his voice _is_ a whisper. “I was beside myself with how much I needed you.” When he looks up at Draco, there’s something naked and honest in his eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let go.”

“Well,” Draco says. “How far you want to go can only be up to you. We don’t have to do this ever again. You don’t ever have to go into subspace, if you don’t feel like doing it.”

Potter licks his lips, hesitant. He opens his mouth and closes it again a couple of times before he manages to get out his words. “Are you disappointed?”

“What I feel doesn’t matter,” Draco replies. “I’m not the one giving up control over my body.”

Potter shakes his head stubbornly. “It matters to me.”

And this quickly registers as a red flag somewhere in a dark corner of Draco’s mind. Because this, this is not the sort of reaction that comes without strings attached. But Potter is staring at him, waiting, eager, and the rest of Draco’s mind has no problem drowning out the part that warns for danger. Because he doesn’t do this. Draco doesn’t _do_ long term relationships, and Potter asking these questions means someone will get hurt.

“I can’t tell you how far to go,” Draco replies sincerely, trying to distance himself.

“I thought that was exactly the point of doms,” Potter offers, and there’s a hint of teasing in his voice. A light-heartedness that makes Draco forget about their history. As though they only exist in the here and now.

“Giving up control is your choice,” Draco says, fighting a smile. “I can’t do a thing until you make up your mind.”

They stay silent for a few minutes, and Draco wonders if Potter feels the same as he does. Light.

“I want,” Potter says eventually. “I want to try again.”

“Really?” Draco asks. He’s been hoping for this. But Potter’s been fighting tooth and nail for every inch of control he gives up that it seems surreal he’s asking to have another go.

Potter nods. “I can be free today,” he offers.

This tugs a smirk from Draco. “Not today,” he says.

“But—”

“I had another look at your file before our second session,” Draco informs Potter.

“What?”

“You know, the form you filled in when you first showed up at Pansy’s.”

“Oh.” Then, “Wait a minute, aren’t those confidential?”

“Not between dom and sub. You can ask Pansy to see mine.” Draco moves on, “You were rather careless, left too many blanks.”

“I didn’t even know what half of those things were,” Potter replies defensively.

“Well, you’ll have a better idea now. And if you don’t, look it up.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to fill the form from scratch again, and I want you to comment on every single topic.”

“I’m not going to—”

“I wasn’t done. And you are going to, if you want us to move forward.” This garners him a glare from Potter. “You know more about your hard and soft limits now, I want you to pay particular attention to those. If something piques your interest, write down why. You’ll fill out every category, even if it’s just to say you’ve never seriously thought about it. Though, if possible, think seriously about it.”

“Bloody hell, Malfoy, that’ll take days,” Potter complains.

“More time for you to really think about this, then.”

Rolling his eyes, Potter says, “I’ll see when I can drop by the club and pick up another form.”

“No need to worry about it,” Draco says. “I’ll owl you a new one and attach mine to it, as well.” He smirks at Potter before he adds, “So you can see how responsible adults fill out their files.”

Potter gives him another roll of his eyes, followed by, “Fuck you.”

“Watch it,” Draco warns, using the voice he knows gets him anyone’s attention. The reaction it gets from Potter is simply exquisite: it makes him licks his lips and sit up straighter, eyes focused.

“Sorry,” Potter says.

Smirking, Draco promises, “We’ll work on that.”

 

The following morning, Draco owls Potter a brand new parchment, along with a slightly older one that is a spare copy of Draco’s own file. It takes Potter the rest of the week to return the filled form. But the wait is worth it. Because Potter has been rather thorough this time around.

Draco smiles as he takes the parchment out of its envelope. Another piece of parchment, a note, falls out, too. Draco leaves it on his desk as he sits back on his leather armchair to go over Potter’s improved file.

He has expanded his notes under the section of pain play, which Draco is not surprised by in the least. He is pleased to find, however, that now this is not the only section that appears listed as an interest. Potter has rather interesting opinions on candle wax, which fits into how much he likes pain. He’s written ‘ _I don’t mind_ ’ under most of the other kinks involving sensation play, though that’s probably because he hasn’t played long enough to realise everything on Pansy’s list can be torture, if of a very different nature than the one brought on by pain play. But torture still.

He also finds that Potter has extended his softer limits to include things he hadn’t commented on before. Most of the things he lists as soft limits are of little interest to Draco, anyway. So far, so good, Draco thinks. They’re not exactly the same. Potter is much more into pain and Draco is much more into sensations, but he’s certain they can strike a middle ground that would work for both of them.

Potter also has very few hard limits. Other than anything that will leave a permanent mark, his other hard limits include weaponry (no surprises there), boot worship (because he, in Potter’s own words, ‘ _could never take it seriously_ ’) and breath play.

They’re perfectly compatible, Draco realises, as he moves on. Perfectly until he gets to the section labelled external partners. Draco knows how his own file looks on this section. He hasn’t exactly written paragraphs under each heading, but he has been very specific about the things that turn him on, courtesy of Pansy, who once, in an effort to get him to stop sleeping around, sat him down to fill out every single line on that section.

Potter has not been anywhere near as thorough. Though that’s not the problem. A blank space would’ve proven less troublesome. The problem is, while Draco is all for most of the activities listed under external partners, Potter has outlined the vast majority of them as soft limits. He even bothered specifying under which circumstances he’d enjoy certain scenes. For example, suspension with a small, trusted audience. Under the topic of sub-lending, Potter first wrote ‘Hard Limit’ before he scratched it out and changed it to ’Soft’. Draco wonders if he left the scratched out part on purpose. It’s not as if he couldn’t have used magic to erase it.

Draco picks up Potter’s note. Potter was so eloquent on his new file, that Draco half-expects it to be a request to talk their differences. It’s not. It’s a one-sentence note asking when and where their next meeting will be. Shaking his head, Draco takes out a piece of parchment to write down his reply.

He thinks about Potter’s lack of enthusiasm for other people as he watches his owl take leave, wondering if maybe they should talk about it sooner rather than later. In the end, he figures they’ll cross that bridge when they have to.

In the meantime, Draco settles in to start planning their next scene. He reviews Potter’s file again and comes up with something he reckons they are both going to enjoy very much.

 

“It came to my attention the other night,” Draco says, running his fingers across Potter’s thighs, “that we haven’t actually discussed the matter of sex.” Potter draws in a sharp breath, making Draco smirk. “Thoughts?”

Potter genuinely looks caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean, do you want to?” Draco asks, though if the way Potter’s dick is starting to twitch is anything to go by, the question is rather pointless.

“I-Yeah,” Potter replies.

“We haven’t even started and you’re already incapable of forming full sentences? Tut, tut,” Draco says.

“Please,” Potter amends. When Draco smacks him on his thigh, Potter corrects himself again, “Please, I want to.”

“Better,” Draco acquiesces.

Draco hasn’t told Potter what they’re going to do tonight. He simply told him to strip and go lie on his back on Draco’s bed. After he spent the night over at Potter’s, he reckoned it was only fair to let Potter see Draco’s own flat. Or a part of it at least.

Placing a hand on Potter’s ankle, Draco orders, “On your stomach, arms over your head, wrists together.”

Potter obeys diligently, and Draco twirls his wand to bind Potter’s wrists with leather straps. With another wave, Draco ties the straps to the d-ring at the centre of his wooden headboard.

“Comfortable?” Draco asks as he checks that the straps will hold.

“Yes,” Potter replies.

“Good boy,” Draco says, his hand on Potter’s nape. He watches with pleasure as Potter sucks in a deep breath. “You’re going to keep as still as you can. Place your head on the pillow however you’re more comfortable but you’re not allowed to crane your neck to try to see what I’m doing. You’re not allowed to come until I tell you to. Use ‘yellow’ if you need a break, ‘red’ if you need us to stop.”

“I know how this works,” Potter replies, his tone recalcitrant.

This earns him a hard smack across his arse. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

Draco had allowed Potter’s cheek before, when Potter still refused to come to terms with what they’re doing. But he’s promised to try, so Draco’s already decided it’s time to start pushing him.

“I’m sorry,” Potter says.

“Tell me something,” Draco says, switching topics, “have you ever played with hot wax?”

At this, Potter’s head turns so fast in Draco’s direction that Draco wonders about whiplash. Still.

He smacks Potter’s arse again, harder this time. “What did I say about craning your neck?”

“I’m not allowed to,” Potter answers, his head back where it’s supposed to be.

“You haven’t answered my earlier question,” Draco reminds him as he summons a tray from under his bed. There is a set of candles on the tray, some thin and long, some short and wide. The tray also holds a natural fibre paint brush and a small, metal container.

“I haven’t,” comes Potter’s reply.

“It’s on your list of interests,” Draco comments, taking a small white candle from the tray. His wand makes a noise and a spark when he waves it to light the candle. The noise distracts Potter, makes him lift his head, and Draco can already tell where this movement is going. “Do I have to blindfold you to keep you from turning around?” he asks.

They haven’t discussed punishment, but Draco is starting to think they might have to, sooner, rather than later.

“No,” Potter answers, dropping his head back on the pillow.

“I will, if you do it again,” Draco warns. He tests the temperature of the wax by dripping a couple of drops on his own arm — not hot at all — before charming the lit candle to hover over Potter’s back. When he’s ready, Draco asks, “Colour?”

“Green,” Harry says.

With that, the first drop of white wax drops on Potter’s skin. It makes Potter hiss deliciously, but this time, he remembers to keep his head still.

“How does that feel?” Draco asks.

“Warm,” Potter replies.

“Too warm?”

“Not really.”

Draco drips a couple more experimental drops on Potter’s back, letting him get used to the feeling before he really starts. He charms the candle to drip a little faster once he’s sure Potter can take the temperature. When there’s enough wax to play around, Draco starts using it to rub circles on Potter’s shoulders.

Potter makes small, pleased noises as Draco massages his muscles, and it isn’t long before the first candle wears out. Draco has another candle set up, this time, a silver one that melts at a higher temperature. Again, he tries it on himself first, before applying a few drops to Potter’s skin.

“Colour?”

“Green.”

Potter doesn’t show any sign that he feels the slight change in temperature. As it is, it takes Potter two more candles, each with increased melting points, before he starts squirming. He doesn’t use his safewords, however, so Draco keeps going.

Like this, Draco works his way down Potter’s body. By the time they make it to the small of Potter’s back, Draco has a pretty good idea of how much Potter can take, has decided on the right wax for the next part. He chooses a dark green to melt in the container. Charming the wax so it stirs itself until it’s evenly melted, Draco casts an Impervius Charm over his own eyes. Then he dips the brush — long horse hair bristles, short handle — and warns Potter, “This is going to sting.”

The wax is not one of the hottest ones that they’ve tried tonight. That would probably be too much. Too much because the next thing Draco does is raise the brush and smack it square on Potter’s left buttock.

Potter jerks _hard_. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“Colour?” Draco asks.

Potter takes a stealing breath before he answers, “Green.”

Draco tackles Potter’s right cheek the second time. He sees splashes of green wax flying in the direction of his eyes but his Impervius Charm holds. Potter doesn’t jerk as hard this time, however Draco doesn’t miss the way his grip tightens on the leather straps.

The brush isn’t anywhere as long or wide as a regular paddle or flogger. But between the sting of the bristles, the hotness and that special something he put in the wax, Draco’s got Potter writhing pretty hard in a small space of time. He enjoys seeing the splatter of dark green against Potter’s reddening skin.

“I want to keep you like this,” Draco tells him, digging his fingers in Potter’s buttocks while he lets the man cool for a bit. He massages until Potter moans a little for him. Potter is rutting against Draco’s satin sheets, hips moving in slow circles, when Draco adds, “You look good in my colours, Harry.”

It’s true, Potter’s back looks striking in the splash of green, silver and white. But mostly, Draco says it because he knows Potter is going to make more pretty noises for him. Potter doesn’t disappoint. He groans low in his throat, thrusting deep into the mattress once, twice.

“Have you noticed yet, Harry?” Draco wonders out loud as he watches Potter work himself against the sheets.

“No-noticed?” comes Potter’s broken voice.

Draco doesn’t think he’s seen Potter this aroused yet. The image of Potter covered in wax in Slytherin colours and rutting hard against his sheets, using the leather straps for leverage goes straight to Draco’s balls. Fuck, he’s getting hard, too.

“How does the wax feel?” Draco asks, using the brush to paint a long strip of green that goes from Potter’s calf all the way up to where his thigh meets his arse.

Moaning, Potter pushes into the brush, hips raised. “Hot,” he says.

“Stop moving so much,” Draco chastises him. With one hand, Draco holds Potter’s hips still, with the other, he paints a parallel line on Potter’s other leg. Potter tries to push against Draco’s hand but as soon as he finds resistance, he flops back on the mattress, groaning. Leaning down so his lips are inches away from Potter’s skin, Draco says, “Of course, melted wax is hot.” His breath ghosts over Potter, making the man shudder. “Isn’t there something else?”

“Fu-uck,” Potter hisses.

“Maybe this will give you an idea,” Draco says, picking up the brush again. He dips it in the container and orders, “Spread your legs.” Potter complies, taking the opportunity to thrust again into Draco’s sheets.

From where he sits in between Potter’s spread legs, Draco has a nice view of the back of Potter’s balls. He puts his free hand on Potter’s hip again, to keep him still. Then his brush is running down from Potter’s cleft to the back of his balls.

“ _Fuck_!” Potter screams. “Shitshitshit,” he pants, and he’s pulling on his restraints so hard that the leather squeaks.

“How did that feel?” Draco asks.

Potter’s breath is laboured when he answers, “It felt— _Fuck_ , it felt like I was going to come.”

“But I told you that you couldn’t,” Draco reminds him.

“I know,” Potter says. “I know, I just— it brought me so close, Merlin, what is—” Potter cuts himself short. He sniffs, and Draco thinks he’s finally catching on when he asks, “Did you put _dittany_ in the wax?”

“Do you like it?”

Draco had discovered the joys of dittany in wax, almost by accident, a couple of years back. He’d been experimenting with ingredients to get the most out of his wax play, and in an effort to increase the melting temperature without actually causing any real harm, Draco had used dittany to make a candle. The effect had been extraordinary because not only did the dittany make the skin tolerate higher temperatures, it was also very arousing. He’d forgotten dittany’s aphrodisiac-like qualities.

The build-up is very slow. But once the skin has awoken under the wax, once every point is on fire, spreading Draco’s wax on anyone’s skin will almost certainly bring them too close to the edge.

It’s why Potter’s been trying to ride Draco’s mattress for the past half hour.

Grabbing Potter’s ankle, Draco says, “Come on, turn over.”

When Potter raises his hips using his restraints as leverage, Draco catches a glimpse of the wet spot on the bed where Potter’s been grinding against the sheets. Potter winces as his waxed and bruised bottom hits the mattress. Draco can see some of the colours on Potter’s sides. Though those are not what keep his attention. Draco figured Potter would be pretty hard by now but he didn’t expect this.

Because Potter? He thrusts his hips in the air, in an action that seems as involuntary as it is pointless. Potter’s cock is swollen, pink all over and leaking at the tip. Draco wants to fuck his own mouth on it. There’ll be time for that later, Draco reflects.

“Remember what I said about coming?” Draco asks, running his palms over Potter’s thighs.

Sucking in a breath, Potter nods. “Not until you say I can.”

“Good, good boy,” Draco murmurs, placing a trail of soft kisses along Potter’s inner thigh.

“Fuck,” Potter mutters.

“We’re not done with the wax,” Draco says, in case Potter is getting any ideas.

Draco starts melting his coolest wax as Potter’s eyes widen comically, in utter disbelief. He doesn’t get to say a word on the matter before Draco starts painting wax over his nipples. Potter squirms but takes it. He moves even less when Draco moves onto his other nipple.

“You’re being so good for me, Harry,” Draco tells him. “Such a good boy, I want to keep you.” Potter makes an undignified noise low in his throat, and Draco can feel them nearing those sharp edges that make Potter cower. “I’ve got you,” he whispers.

Whimpering, Potter nods. He holds onto the leather straps pretty hard, steeling himself for more. Draco smiles at him, kissing his inner thigh once more before he moves his brush again.

Then, with precision and swiftness, Draco paints a smooth line of wax along Potter’s shaft.

This time, Potter thrashes as he screams, incoherent. He pants really hard as he works himself away from the edge of orgasm, hips thrusting in the air.

“Shh,” Draco murmurs, “you’re okay, Harry. I’m proud of you.”

Potter’s breath hitches, and he sounds beside himself when he all but begs, “Please.”

“Please, what?” Draco asks innocently, tracing his thumb over the head of Potter’s shaft.

“Fuck,” Potter whimpers.

Draco watches Potter struggle with his words. He doesn’t want to give him a window of opportunity big enough for him to start backtracking. They’ve made progress tonight. So Draco holds fast onto Potter’s shaft, paints another quick line over his balls, then another along his cock.

“Please,” Potter begs, tears in his eyes. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

“Please, what?” Draco asks again, this time, tracing a curve that barely skirts the line of Potter’s slit.

Potter jerks so hard in Draco’s hand that Draco almost lets go.

“Please, Draco,” he cries. “Please let me come, Oh, Merlin, _please_.”

“Doesn’t it feel good, Harry,” Draco says, dropping the brush and giving Potter a much-needed break. “Don’t you enjoy it when you let me make these choices?” He kisses Potter just under his belly button. “Isn’t it so much better when you let go?”

“Please,” Potter begs again.

“I’m going to make you come in my mouth,” Draco promises. “I’ll make it good because you’ve tried so hard tonight, Harry. I’m so proud.”

Without waiting any longer, Draco throws Potter’s legs over his shoulders. He wastes no time lowering his mouth on Potter’s cock, sucking until Potter’s muscles tense in anticipation of his release. It doesn’t last very long because Potter was already so close to finishing when Draco got his mouth on his dick.

Potter comes long and hard, spurting into Draco’s mouth.

After it’s over, Potter lies spent on the bed. He looks really out of it this time, a little vulnerable and so well-fucked that the image pulls hard on Draco’s balls. Taking his own cock out of his trousers, Draco jerks himself off on top of Potter’s body. It doesn’t take very long before Draco is coming on Potter, the sensation making Potter stir and crack open an eye.

“You should’ve let me help you with that,” he slurs.

Draco feels warm in his chest, and maybe that’s what prompts him to crawl on top of Potter’s body and kiss him square on the lips. It’s a slow kiss, no real intention behind it. It’s a kiss for the sake of itself, the kind Draco hasn’t shared with anyone for a really long time.

 

It’s morning and Draco is putting down his cup of tea, looking determined. “Are you ready to talk about this now?”

They stand next to each other in Draco’s kitchen: Potter with his back leaning into the counter, Draco with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting. He raises a single eyebrow, which makes Potter rub his temple and say, “Haven’t we done enough talking already?”

“No,” Draco replies simply. “We’ve talked about what you like and don’t. We’ve talked about what you need. I’ve been very patient, but.” Draco stops to bridge the gap between them. His lips brush the shell of Potter’s ear when he whispers, “Seeing you desperate for me last night made me realise it’s time for you to know what _I_ like.”

Potter, rather predictably, blushes prettily, a rosy colour that spreads from his cheeks. Potter gulps before he says, “Haven’t you liked this?”

“And that’s another thing we ought to discuss,” Draco says, moving away from Potter’s body. “What is ‘this’, exactly?”

Potter blinks at Draco in confusion a couple of times before his jaw sets. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. Is this something we just do whenever we want? Or is this something we schedule regularly? Or is this something more ever-present?” He looks for Potter’s reaction to his last question, and sure enough, Potter is now paying proper attention. “Tell me something,” Draco tries next, shifting closer to Potter, “is this the sort of thing that you want to extend to every single aspect of your life?” Potter doesn’t nod but the way he sucks in a quick breath is telling enough. Draco lowers his voice just a fraction as he rubs lazy circles on Potter’s hip. “Would you like me to show up at your office one day, boss you around until everyone knows you’re my pretty little thing?”

“Fuck,” Potter mutters under his breath. “I… Do _you_ want that?”

“I have no desire to let the entire world know what I do behind closed doors, no,” Draco answers sincerely.

“Oh,” Potter says, sounding a little disappointed.

“That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it for you,” Draco replies. He’s already done things for Potter that he doesn’t find particularly entrancing in themselves. That he’s enjoyed them because Potter’s reactions are delicious and precious is a different story.

Potter considers Draco for a moment, clearly not convinced Draco would do anything out of the goodness of a selfless heart. “You would?” Potter asks, raising a single eyebrow at Draco.

Draco snorts under his breath. “You don’t trust me yet, which is fine,” he says in his most condescending voice. When Potter opens his mouth next, a mutinous look on his face, Draco cuts him off, “If you’re about to lie to yourself, and me by extension, with regards to your commitment to _this_ , don’t.”

He fixes Potter with a stare so Potter knows to remain quiet. “At any rate, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. First things first, the way this works is: I’m your dominant, you’re my submissive.” Draco can tell by the way Potter is staying perfectly still and quiet that he does not exactly find the terms to his liking. Of course he doesn’t, the stubborn little shit. Ignoring Potter, Draco continues, “When we’re doing a scene, you do as you’re told, no room for negotiation. That’s why we talk before and after. Of course, you can use your safewords to opt out of a scene or slow it down.

“Some people find it easier to schedule scenes on a regular basis, helps create habits, you see. Some, find they enjoy the not-knowing. Of course, there are people who do this 24/7, but you don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you not to be stupid, so that arrangement is out of the question. Personally, I prefer to set aside certain nights for play, where I know I’ll always be available, even if we don’t actually end up meeting.”

“How do you mean?” Potter asks.

“I mean, I can set aside Tuesday nights and Friday through Sunday for us, though that does not necessarily mean we’ll scene every one of those nights. It just means I’ll be available if we’re both up for it.”

“Yeah, all right, that works,” Potter agrees. Then, “Wait no, Tuesdays are no good. We have staff meeting on Wednesdays.”

“How about Wednesday nights, then?”

“I can make that work.”

“Good, now, for the contract,” Draco starts.

“Contract?”

Draco has to try very hard not to roll his eyes at Potter’s ignorance. Honestly. “Yes, Potter, we ought to draw up a contract. A magically binding agreement where I promise not to cross your hard limits and you—” Draco gives Potter a once-over. He smirks when he finishes, “Well, you promise to be my good little boy.”

Potter’s face flushes harder than before. He’s practically the colour of beetroot, and in sweet Salazar’s name, Draco wants to _keep_ him.

Draco has to clear his throat before he is able to speak again, “So, we need a contract if we’re going to do this regularly. Unless you think you’ve had enough?”

Potter has managed to regain some self-control by the time he says, “What do we have to do?”

“We’ll go to Pansy for the formalities, easier that way. But, before that, we still need to discuss a few things.”

“Like what? I mean, you know my limits, I know yours, and everything else is fair game, right?”

This time, Draco cannot keep himself from rolling his eyes. Because Potter can be so bloody obtuse, and really, only an idiot would be this stupid and careless. Only a Gryffindor would rush into this, head first, no questions asked.

“What if I told you that you couldn’t sleep with anyone else while we’re doing this? What if—”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on sleeping around anyway,” Potter interjects.

Of course not, Draco thinks. He’d been planning on easing into this part of the conversation, but. “What if I told you the opposite? That the possibility of having other partners is a non-negotiable? What if I told you I’m only doing this as long as _you_ don’t sleep with anyone else while I get to shag whomever I please?”

This, finally, shuts Potter up. He bites the inside of his cheeks like he’s holding in some very rude remarks. Draco is ninety-percent sure that Potter is going to tell him to fuck off in three, two, one.

“Fine,” Potter says through gritted teeth, which is both astounding and somehow _worse_ than Potter telling him to piss off.

“What?” Draco says, unable to keep his disbelief at bay.

“So you want to sleep with other people, Malfoy, fine,” Potter replies. “We’re not _dating_. We both can do whatever we please outside our agreed hours for,” Potter hesitates, looking for the right words, “for whatever this is.”

“Let’s get one thing clear,” Draco says, his voice a little harsher than he intended, “‘Whatever this is’ has a name, and it’s called you’re subbing for me.” Potter clenches his jaw. “That’s right, Potter, you’re choosing to submit to me. But if you can’t even get those words out of your mouth, then perhaps we should stop here.”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Potter says.

“This is my flat,” Draco reminds him. “ _You_ can leave.” But Potter remains rooted to his spot in Draco’s kitchen, unmoving until Draco speaks again.

“Potter, do you actually want to do this?” Draco asks.

“Yes.”

“And what is it that you want to do?” Draco prods.

“You kn—”

“If you’re about to tell me that I know what it is, try again.”

Potter gets this defiant look in his eyes again but one arched eyebrow from Draco makes him back down and say, “I want to submit to you.” His cheeks are slightly pink but he’s staring straight at Draco.

Nodding, Draco says, “Meet me in Pansy’s office tomorrow to draw the official contract.”

 

They’ve been sitting in Pansy’s office for the past half-hour when Pansy says, “Now, about the exclusivity clause.”

“We want it out,” Draco says.

“I know you want it out, Draco,” Pansy says knowingly. She turns to Potter with significantly kinder eyes. “But, Mr Potter, are you sure?”

Potter shrugs. “It’s not like we’re dating. I don’t care.”

“Malfoy?” Pansy repeats, her eyes big as she stares at Draco for some non-verbal answers. Draco doesn’t know what to say. It’s not like they ever call each other anything else outside a scene. Pansy sighs, and what comes out of her mouth is a surprise to both Draco and Potter: “Perhaps this whole sleeping with your nemesis was a mistake.”

“Pansy,” Draco starts but Potter cuts him short.

“It’s fine,” Potter insists. “We already talked about this, I don’t see why we need to go over all of it again.”

“It’s called being thorough, Mr Potter. And I cannot condone an agreement like this when—”

“Look,” Potter snaps, “I said it’s bloody fine. You don’t have to mother me, you’re not even my friend.”

In a split second, Pansy’s entire demeanour changes. Straightening her back, she crosses her arms over her chest.

In a carefully controlled voice, she says, “I don’t know what it is about men who think they can bully me around. Maybe it’s the high heels, or maybe it’s because I give the impression that I give a fuck. Maybe I just wear too much pink.” She fixes Potter with a stare that, had Potter been her sub, he’d be in for quite the spanking. “But if you ever speak to me like that again, I promise I will throw you out on that pretty little arse of yours, and I won’t give a fuck whose dick you’re sucking. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Draco replies, before Potter can dig himself into an even deeper hole.

“I’ll have your paperwork by the end of tomorrow,” Pansy says, waving them out of her office.

Once Draco shuts the door to Pansy’s office behind himself, he takes a hold of Potter’s elbow, stirring him into an empty room.

“You’re a bloody moron,” Draco tells him. “You can’t talk to _Pansy_ like that.”

“Why, you’re shagging her, too?” Potter asks bitterly.

It feels like he’s been punched and, without realising, Draco is taking a couple of steps away from Potter. All he can think is, _bloody hell, Pansy might be right_.

“Potter, if this exclusivity thing is going to be a problem—”

“How many times do I have to fucking say it’s fine before anyone believes me!” Potter all but yells.

Draco rubs his face. He knows Potter is not going to back down. He knows Potter is being an idiot, and if Potter were an inch less proud, he’d say something. He knows Potter won’t back out of their agreement. If anyone has to end this, it’s going to have to be him.

“This won’t work if you don’t tell me what bothers you,” Draco says, trying his darned best to give Potter an easy way out.

But instead Potter says, “It bothers me when you try to baby me.”

Draco has to try very hard not to smile at Potter. He has to try very hard to sound stern when he says, “You’re a bloody brat, Potter.”

Raising an eyebrow, Potter says, “I thought I was your boy.”

And without thinking, Draco strides towards Potter. He grabs Potter by the collar of his robes and says, “That you are,” before planting a possessive kiss on Potter’s mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

They fit against each other in places where it should make no sense. But they do. They work, and most of the time Draco is too busy watching Potter, or thinking about Potter, to even realise that he’s spending most of his waking hours with Potter, one way or the other. And a part of Draco wants to pull away fast like he’s been burnt. But the other part, the part that’s drowning Draco’s first instinct, that part can’t stop taking every inch of Potter in.

Their time together is better now, too. Slowly, Potter stops fighting against every darned step they take. And, once he stops, once he’s finally able to let go without struggling so hard, he starts genuinely enjoying every single moment. He stops glaring and, instead, his mouth begins curving into smiles that are just for Draco.

And now that Draco knows he’s got time, he takes his time. He discovers Potter has a thing for spicy foods in the middle of the night after Potter uses something called a ‘mobile’ — a ridiculous name if you ask Draco — to order in curry. Draco does not particularly enjoy Potter’s choices in food and reckons one of these days he’ll have to properly educate Potter in the art of fine dining.

Actually, that’s exactly how they end up going out once a week, as per Draco’s insistence because he’ll die if he keeps eating food that comes from boxes. It’s at a fine restaurant, after Draco has managed to convince Potter to get the octopus, that Draco finds Potter also has a rather appalling taste in wines.

“Give me that,” Draco snaps at him when Potter suggests they get the worst wine off the menu.

Potter blinks at him for a moment before he hands over the wine list without another word.

“You’re hopeless,” Draco says and proceeds to order the finest bottle off the list, an act that makes the waiter nod approvingly.

“Well, I never drink wine,” Potter says defensively once the waiter has left.

“That much is evident.”

Potter rolls his eyes at him, which makes Draco kick him in the shin under the table. Potter yelps and opens his mouth but Draco beats him to it.

“You’re mine tonight,” Draco reminds him.

The effect is instantaneous. Potter blushes a little as he nods. “Sorry,” he says.

Draco waits a beat before he switches conversation topics and asks, “Isn’t this much nicer than that poison you keep force-feeding me?”

Potter takes a moment to look around. “This is pretentious and I’ve never force-fed you anything,” Potter replies.

“You’re right,” Draco agrees, “if anything, I’ve been the one doing the force-feeding.”

That’s not exactly true, but Potter still colours. Draco would bet anything Potter is thinking about the strawberries the week before.

“You ruined strawberries for me,” Potter says, confirming Draco’s suspicions.

“Ruined them for you? If I remember correctly,” Draco says, waiting for the moment Potter brings his glass of water to his mouth, “I even let you come that night.”

Potter splutters and coughs, and couples around them start turning to see what all the fuss is about.

“Deep breaths,” Draco tells him.

“Fuck you,” Potter replies automatically. Then he’s pressing his lips together and looking up at Draco before saying, “Sorry.”

Draco makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I suppose you caught yourself this time.”

It isn’t too long before their waiter is back with the bottle of wine and their food. Potter pokes around his octopus with his fork before Draco rolls his eyes at him, which somehow is what propels Potter to give it a try.

“You’re right, this is good,” Potter says around his second mouthful.

And Draco could make a crack about always knowing what’s good for Potter but he doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “Did nobody ever tell you talking with your mouth full is rude?” His tone is nowhere near as disapproving as he would’ve hoped. Though Draco supposes he should be glad he’s managed to keep the grin off his face for long enough to tell Potter off.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Potter throws back. “Put me over your knee and spank me?”

“As if that’d help,” Draco replies without thinking. “What kind of deterrent would that be when you like it so much.”

Draco thinks it’s a testament to how much Potter has relaxed into the conversation when he replies, “Guess you’ll have to come up with something better.”

Anticipation pools in the pit of Draco’s stomach as he thinks of the many things he could do to Potter. It leaves him breathless, the way Potter just makes him _want_.

“Don’t worry,” Draco says after a pause, “I’ve been doing this for quite some time, so you better not get too cheeky.”

Potter licks his lips, and Draco almost orders the bill right then and there. Draco doesn’t, and the conversation moves on easily. Because Potter talks and talks. About his day, this case he’s working on, not any details, just how boring the whole affair is. And then he tells Draco about his godson Teddy, and how Teddy is now sporting hair the colour of green poison.

The dinners become a thing they do on most nights they meet up. And for the rest of the nights when dinner is not an option, Draco starts stocking his kitchen with reasonable foods so when Potter stirs awake, starving, there’s something edible around.

He discovers many things about Potter during their meals. But the interesting things, those he finds in his bedroom, usually when Potter is tied up.

Draco’s favourite thing so far is that Potter has some weird spots where a flogger won’t elicit much of a reaction, but where a light touch will make him squirm. Like the back of his knees or the inside of his wrists.

Draco discovers this the day Potter shows up late at his place. He’d owled earlier, writing he might not be making it to their meeting as he was still stuck at work.

“It’s this case,” Potter explains when he finally gets to Draco’s. Draco, who’s already wearing his pyjama bottoms and a plain white tee, had already given up on Potter showing up at all. Then Potter says, “We’ve got long meetings tomorrow, too.”

Draco nods. “You didn’t have to come. We can always reschedule.”

But Potter shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway,” Potter tells the floor.

Oh, Draco thinks. Well, if that’s the case, he’s got just the thing.

He tells Potter to wash his face in the guest bathroom while he changes into something more appropriate. He gets a pair of black trousers and a grey shirt from his drawer before making his way back to the living room where Potter has dutifully taken off all his clothes.

The fact that Potter is standing naked in front of Draco should work as some sort of impediment to Potter’s cheek. But of course it doesn’t.

Because Potter takes one look at Draco and cracks, “And I half-expected you to come wearing all leather.” He’s got a teasing smile on his face that melts away all of Draco’s resolve to spank him.

Still. “You’re such a mouthy little shit, Harry,” Draco says. Then he clears his throat in a vague attempt to put an edge of authority in his voice. “Tonight, that stops now.”

Potter nods. “Yes.”

“I’m happy you understand how this works,” Draco says. “But I have something a little more specific in mind to help with that particular problem. I’m going to play with you tonight, and you’re going to stay perfectly quiet.

“I’ll tie you up, because I know how much you like it and because I know how much you’d move otherwise. However, that’s all the help you’re going to get from me. You’re going to keep that mouth of yours shut. Noises are okay, and if you feel like you need a break or need to stop altogether, you know your safewords, and I expect you to use them. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Colour?”

“Green.”

Without any further ado, Draco moves to where Potter stands. With a wave of his wand, he conjures a long line of leather straps that he wraps around Potter’s wrists. With a second wave, Draco cuffs Potter’s ankles to the floor. With a third wave, Draco conjures a bucketful of ice that is placed neatly on the floor beside them.

He asks Potter about the restraints, and Potter nods, lips sealed.

“Good boy,” Draco says, picking up a cube of ice.

The first touch of the ice on Potter’s skin makes him inhale sharply. But he stays very quiet as Draco runs the cube along the side of his arm.

“Do you think this will be easy, Harry?” Draco wonders aloud, rubbing the cube along Potter’s fingers.

Potter makes no sound or movement until Draco runs the cube down from his palm to his wrist to his elbow. This, for some reason, makes Potter suck in a breath. Draco does it again to make sure he’s just found one of Potter’s sweet spots. The reaction is the same, if anything, it’s a fraction stronger. Draco smiles at his findings and moves on.

He covers Potter’s body like this, slowly, patiently. Potter shivers when Draco places the ice right on his nipples but after a second or two he’s pushing into the touch, making a tiny noise at the back of his throat. Draco lingers on the skin just above Potter’s cock, which is not all-the-way hard but stirring with interest.

He lingers to let Potter prepare for what’s about to come. Potter tenses up a little, and when Draco looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, he sees Potter is biting down hard on his bottom lip.

“Don’t bite too hard, Harry,” Draco orders him as he takes a fresh cube to Potter’s cock.

Potter gives a full-body jerk, moaning low in his throat.

“You better not have drawn blood,” Draco says conversationally, making sure he touches every inch of Potter’s dick with the ice.

Potter is breathing heavily by the time Draco has moved on to his inner thighs. He makes lazy circles on Potter’s upper leg to give him room to regroup. He is honestly intending on giving Potter a long break as he moves down to his feet and around to reach Potter’s behind.

Except that, as Draco moves up the back of Potter’s legs, Potter makes an indignant whimper when the cube touches the skin behind his knee. And Draco has to be sure, so he does it again. Potter makes more sweet noises for him, his toes curling. Planting a feathery kiss on that particular patch of skin, Draco rolls onto his own feet to lather ice over the rest of Potter’s naked body.

He works the same way he did on Potter’s front, letting himself take note of Potter’s spots. He leaves Potter’s arse for last, though. By the time Draco has touched almost every inch of Potter’s skin with ice, Potter’s eyes have fallen closed. He has a blissful expression on his face, the kind he gets when he’s finally able to let go, to fall into that warm space in his mind. And Draco feels a sudden stab of longing for that state, which he left behind years ago.

Closing his eyes, Draco takes one deep breath. He wonders if that’s what he really wants. To submit. But likes taking care of people. Likes giving them what they need. And maybe it’s just Potter. Maybe it’s just that they’ve worked so hard for Potter to get here that Draco is remembering how he felt when he finally got there with Pansy. It’s just that, he’s sure. Nostalgia.

Draco shakes his head at himself. He looks at Potter’s body before him and knows he wouldn’t trade what they’ve built any time soon.

He goes to stand behind Potter, palming one of his cheeks and whispering in Potter’s ear, “Have you ever had ice up your arse, Harry?” Potter shakes his head. “Are you going to let me do it now?” Draco asks, his finger teasing Potter’s hole.

Potter opens his mouth before he remembers himself and snaps it shut. He nods once, pushing into Draco’s touch.

“Good boy, Harry,” Draco says, pressing a kiss to Potter’s neck. “I’m glad I get to be the first one to see this,” Draco comments, grabbing a final cube.

Potter jerks when the cube touches his hole, but he manages to steel himself as Draco pushes the ice in.

“I want you to blow me with your arse full,” Draco says, “I want you to blow me while your arse melts the ice and water runs down your thighs.”

Potter’s eyes have fallen closed at Draco’s words, but he nods nevertheless, and with a wave of Draco’s hands, he’s free to sink to his knees. Draco helps a clumsy Potter get his fly open, and in a second, Potter’s warm mouth is on Draco’s cock.

Over the course of their weeks together, Draco has learnt that Potter gives blowjobs with the same sort of intensity with which he approaches everything else in his life. He swallows Draco by working his throat open. He sucks on the head of Draco’s cock and tongues his balls. Draco runs his hand through Potter’s messy hair, grabbing a fistful as he feels himself reaching orgasm. It builds up fast and easy inside Potter’s warm mouth. And then Potter does this thing where he sucks hard on Draco’s cock, almost too hard, and he’s coming with a full-body shudder, Potter swallowing to the last drop.

He feels boneless as he sinks to the floor next to Potter, who is a mess of sweat and water. His eyes are wide as he waits for Draco’s orders.

“You want something?” Draco teases.

Potter opens his mouth. And he’s about to talk, clearly having forgotten himself, but Draco is already moving to kiss him for the first time that night. It’s not his intention to keep Potter from making mistakes, but he can’t help himself as he watches Potter’s bruised mouth.

Potter tastes of his come, and something in Draco soars as he thinks _mine_. He runs his tongue along Potter’s bottom lip, making Potter wince.

“Told you not to bite hard,” Draco says, sucking on the same lip until Potter whimpers. His hands wander downwards, looking for Potter’s dick. “Do you want me to jerk you off?” Draco asks, hands ghosting over the shaft.

Potter nods, his mouth falling open as Draco wraps his hand around him. It doesn’t take long for Potter to come, and before either of them knows it, they’re drifting off to sleep on Draco’s living room floor.

At some point, however, Draco blinks and realises it’s time to move to the bedroom. He nudges a sleepy Potter to his feet and drags them both onto the bed. They barely manage to get under the covers before they pass out again, this time for good.

During the night, Potter moves around the bed until his chest is flush against Draco’s back, his arm draped around Draco’s side.

 

Potter wakes up at the crack of dawn, climbs on top of Draco, and, straddling his hips, kisses him. It takes Draco a moment to register his surroundings, but once he remembers Potter finally showing up last night, he starts complaining about Potter’s breath.

“The last thing I had in my mouth last night was your dick,” Potter says, bending down again. With his lips a breath away from Draco’s he adds, “So technically, this one’s on you.”

Draco gives him a half-hearted spank on the arse that makes Potter bite a little too hard on his lip.

“The last thing you should’ve had in your mouth is a toothbrush,” Draco tells him.

He grabs Potter’s hips, arching upward. Potter lets his head drop on Draco’s shoulders as he grinds down.

“I have to go,” he says, much to Draco’s displeasure. “Early meeting.”

“Mmm.”

“I have to,” Potter insists as Draco digs his fingers into his arse cheeks. He moans a little, shaking his head. Then, “I do, someone suggested I brush my teeth.”

“Are you telling me,” Draco drawls, “that we’d be having sex if not for the fact that you have no toothbrush?”

Potter chuckles, pushing off the bed. “I’m saying I have to go.”

He Disapparates five minutes later, and Draco falls asleep again right after.

Hours later when he wakes up, Draco wonders if they really did have a conversation about toothbrushes or if it was just a dream.

He forgets about the whole thing easily enough. It’s why it comes as a surprise when Potter shows up a week later, toothbrush in hand.

“Why?” is all Draco can say as Potter shows him his new acquisition. He almost asks whether Potter wants to be fucked with it.

Potter frowns, his face falling for a moment. “I thought, after last week,” he starts.

And that’s when Draco remembers. He laughs because Potter looks torn between anger and mortification but puts the man out of his misery by taking the toothbrush from him. Draco places it neatly besides his in the washroom.

“There,” he says. “ _Now_ we can have morning sex.” When Potter rolls his eyes at him, Draco adds, “You’re lucky I’m not in a punishing mood.”

 

The toothbrush is followed up by a pair of underpants, which is in turn followed by a pair of socks with holes in them. Draco frowns at them for a full minute before telling Potter the only reason he’s allowing those in his flat is because they’d never get mistaken for one of his own.

“They’re just socks,” Potter says, which, of course he would.

Draco tries not to look too exasperated as he digs into his sock drawer for his best pair to throw at Potter’s face.

“There,” he says, “wear those tomorrow and then tell me _they’re just socks_.”

“Fine.”

Potter does wear Draco’s socks to work the day after. He leaves way too early for Draco to be awake, but he does write an owl around lunch that simply reads:

_They’re just socks.  
-HP_

Draco cannot help rolling his eyes before he writes his reply.

_You’re impossible.  
-DM_


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

Life has a funny way of appearing to happen all of a sudden. Often, it feels like out of nowhere life is flipped onto its head. It _feels_ sudden, but the truth is that, more often than not, it’s been coming for a while. It’s always a slow series of changes, too small to notice them stacking up against each other, and by the time you’re ready to stop and take stock, there’s already a pile of stuff waiting for you to figure it out.

It _feels_ like it’s coming out of nowhere, but the truth is, it’s been a long time coming.

 

It’s been weeks since the socks, months since Potter first stood in the middle of a room for him, and Draco is having one of those days. The kind where he burns his breakfast, spills half a cup of tea on his robes at lunch and then can’t find a missing cufflink when he goes home to change. He’s frantically searching his entire flat for the missing cufflink. Not because the thing is important in itself. No, it’s the principle of the whole thing because something has to go right for him. It can’t all be a disaster.

After a summoning charm brings up nothing, Draco starts turning out all his drawers. He looks everywhere, under his bed, inside his closet, in the living room and the kitchen. He finds it broken in a cabinet, and then remembers why he never bothered putting the broken cufflink back where it belonged. He’d always meant to throw the pair out.

Sighing, Draco takes this opportunity to throw out the ruined cufflinks. He walks back to his bedroom with every intention of waving his wand to sort the mess and Flooing back to work. Instead, he stops on the threshold petrified. Because as soon as his eyes get a glimpse of the mess on his floor, he finds a few things he doesn’t quite recognise. Things like socks and undershirts and boxers that he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

Things that Potter has brought over. An entire drawer of them. _When_ did Potter get an entire drawer? But that’s not the only thing Potter has brought with him. There’s his toothbrush and a kettle and the files from work he accidentally left on Draco’s kitchen counter two nights ago. The ones Potter hasn’t bothered coming back for because all he has to do is sign them and file them away under ‘closed cases’. The ones Potter left behind because he’s a slob, and he’s been coming over for three nights a week — sometimes more — so there’s all this extra stuff in Draco’s flat. Stuff he’s never wanted, and all he can think is _when_.

He arranges everything that looks like it belongs to Potter into a neat pile in his living room and spends an hour staring at it.

The pile is still there when he Floos to the foyer of Pansy’s club.

 

It occurs to Draco as he steps inside the club that he hasn’t been there in weeks. He used to be there almost every night, and this month he hasn’t been there, not even once.

He heads for the bar first, thinking he’s going to get properly pissed because that seems appropriate enough. He’s ready to order his first in what promises to be a long list of drinks when a man with broad shoulders and dirty blond hair takes a seat next to him. He stares openly at Draco, almost like he’s examining his worth from head to toe.

“What?” Draco asks.

“I saw you coming in, thought I might come say hi,” the man says in a deep voice. He holds his hand out. “I’m Bradley”

“I don’t sub,” Draco replies automatically, hoping the bloke will take a hint and leave him be.

But instead, the bloke says, “I know.” He pauses, giving Draco the once over a second time. He seems to approve of what he sees because the next words out of his mouth are, “I was actually wondering if you’d top me.”

It’s a testament to how out of it Draco is that he can only blink at Bradley for a couple of seconds. And then, when he’s gathered his thoughts, his knee-jerk reaction is to say no. But Bradley smiles disarmingly at him, and Draco asks himself why not. And there are probably a good ten reasons why not, yet the only answer Draco can come up with is that he and Potter had agreed this would be okay.

“I can make it worth your while,” Bradley says.

There’s a leather band around Bradley’s neck that moves when he swallows, and Draco can already picture hooking his fingers on it.

He’s not quite thinking, is the thing. Or he is, but the things he’s thinking, or rather, the single thought on his mind, is perhaps not the greatest omen for success. Because all Draco thinks as he leads the bloke to a room at the back is that they agreed. It’s in their bloody contract. This is fine.

“What’s your safeword?” Draco asks Bradley.

Bradley says, “Lemon,” and in a couple of seconds he’s down to his underwear, standing in the middle of the room, waiting.

Bradley stands with his hands behind his back, his feet shoulder width apart. His head is hunched, his eyes on the floor. A trained sub. Not a challenge but someone who will bend as far as Draco tells them to.

Bradley is nothing like Potter but for some horrible reason all Draco’s mind is capable doing of is remembering his first night with Potter, and how much _this_ is nothing like it.

“You all right there?” Bradley asks after Draco has been standing still with a set of ropes in his hands for a while.

Shaking his head, Draco replies, “Fine.”

He closes his eyes and takes one deep breath. When he opens them again, he zeroes in on Bradley.

Bradley likes rope burns and calling Draco ‘sir’. He asks Draco to call him ‘bitch’ and follows orders perfectly, with the ease that comes with years of practise. He likes to be talked down to, likes to be told he’s dirty and a slut. Likes to beg without needing to. And Draco gives him everything he wants because he’s always been good at that. Knowing what people need and want and when to give it to them.

But his heart is not really in it. At some point, he finds himself wondering if Bradley notices.

Draco ploughs on.

He ploughs on until Bradley begs to suck Draco’s cock. He comes all over Bradley’s face and when he’s done, his knees threaten to buckle. For some reason, it feels like his world is ending, like he’s done something and he can never go back. The truth is, all he really feels like is crying and has to fight very hard against the lump in his throat because this makes no sense.

He almost makes the mistake of apologising to Bradley. For having come on his face. For what was probably a subpar session. Instead, he asks Bradley if he wants to come. Draco can’t say he’s surprised when the man replies no.

Bradley wipes his face, smiling up at Draco and asks, “Are you pleased, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad,” Bradley says, “that will please Master.”

And that’s when Draco notices that the leather band on Bradley’s neck is not a leather band but a collar. He barely listens to what Bradley says next. Something about his dom being away. He’s too busy trying to make sense of what just happened.

He stays in the room long after Bradley leaves, not really thinking. More like, existing passively until his knees get sore from being bent at an awkward angle. By the time he gets himself off the floor, he’s lost track of how long he’s been in there and finally resigns himself to Floo back home.

He’s barely out of the door when Pansy grabs him by the elbow and says, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Yanking his arm out of her grip, Draco answers, “What the fuck does it look like?” Pansy gives Draco a stern look. Before she can say anything else, though, Draco adds, “What happened tonight was between two consenting adults.”

“Oh, really?” Pansy replies in disbelief, crossing her arms above her chest. “And what about the _third_ adult involved in this? Does he consent?”

“Potter signed the papers.”

Pansy rolls her eyes exaggeratedly at him. “You and I both know Potter never should’ve agreed to that clause.”

“We talked about it, he’s fine with it,” Draco says, making a move to leave.

But Pansy stops him dead in his tracks. She’s looking at him like she’s willing her thoughts to penetrate Draco’s mind. It isn’t working.

In the end, she sighs. “I hope for both of your sakes you’re right about that, and this is not just wishful thinking on your part.”

“Are you done?”

Pansy releases him, though she doesn’t look even remotely satisfied. “You’re an absolute git,” she tells him.

Draco tries not to think about what it means to be called an absolute git by the one person who’s always had his back. He tries not to think about how wrong it felt to be in the room with Bradley. It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t wrong because they _agreed_.

He keeps repeating that in his mind as he finally drags himself to sort the pile in the middle of his living room. He puts everything back in place, trying very hard to convince himself that it wasn’t a mistake.

It’s fine.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

Nothing happens is the thing. Draco thinks something will, at first. He thinks he’ll end up telling Potter everything because sometimes he catches himself staring at Potter and his stomach sinks. He thinks Potter will find out, somehow.

So he rehearses conversations in his head, preparing a comeback for every single thing he imagines Potter would say. He’s so preoccupied with coming up with counter arguments that he never stops to think about why exactly it is that he feels like he ought to justify himself.

Nothing happens for weeks, and Draco starts wondering if maybe nothing ever will.

 

It’s Pansy’s idea to hold a masquerade ball on Halloween. She’s been planning one for years and has decided this year she’s having one at the club. Frankly, Draco doesn’t see what’s so special about dressing up and wearing masks but Pansy pesters him to helping out with the decorations. She even makes him help paint masks.

“You owe me,” Draco announces after he spills half a bottle of paint on himself whilst trying to balance a pile of dried masks.

“ _I_ owe you? You just spilt my paint,” Pansy replies, holding her hand to her chest in feigned distress.

Draco rolls his eyes at her and calls her a snob before he resumes his task.

“Why me, Pans?” Draco asks for what feels like the thousandth time. His wrist hurts as he holds what must be his hundredth painted mask. “Why, just why?”

“Because you have incredibly delicate hands and you adore me,” comes Pansy’s reply.

“I’ll adore you a lot less after this,” Draco promises.

“Ah, look at that!” Pansy says, ignoring Draco while she grabs Draco’s latest masterpiece.

He’s just finished an incredibly intricate golden filigree pattern on a black-and-red mask. He feels oddly proud.

“Careful with that,” he warns, “you’ll smudge it.”

Pansy smirks at him. “Don’t you worry, Mr Artist. I’ll keep this one safe.”

“Remind me, why are we painting masks for everyone?”

“It’s the polite thing to do,” Pansy says, which is bollocks and they both know it. “We are hosting the event after all.”

“Don’t lie, you just like arts and crafts.”

“I was not aware liking my job was a crime, Mr Malfoy,” she says, distracted as she flips through her list.

“Liking your job is one thing,” Draco tells her. “Forcing your friends to do it for you is an entirely different matter.”

Pansy sighs exaggeratedly, putting down her quill and parchment. Handing Draco a completely blank mask, she says, “That’ll be your last one, so make it count, darling.”

“Why, you gonna make me wear it, too?”

She smiles at him, teasingly. “I’ll make you wear the ugliest one, of course.”

“Sorry to tell you love, but they’re all astoundingly beautiful,” Draco replies, smirking. “I made them myself.”

“No more chit chat, get to work.”

He’s holding Pansy to her word on this being his very last mask, so he tries to make an excellent job out of it. He chooses deep greens and silver and rolls his eyes when Pansy calls him predictable. He’s quite pleased with how it turns out, is giving it some finishing touches when Pansy pours him a drink.

“This is mighty generous of you,” Draco says because Pansy always makes him pay at the bar.

“Have you told him?” Pansy asks, her tone no longer playful but dead serious.

Now, Draco gets the drink. He downs the whole thing in one go, taps the glass against the bar so Pansy knows to pour him another one. She doesn’t.

Sighing, Draco answers, “No.”

“And you don’t plan to?”

Draco shrugs. “It’s not like I’m lying to him. He’s never asked.”

“Because people always think to ask their partners whether they’ve fucked someone else as of late.”

“I’m not his partner,” Draco replies defensively.

He’s reaching the end of his patience, and if it were up to him, the conversation would be over just about now. Pansy, clearly, does not share the sentiment.

“Are you quite sure about that?” she asks him.

“Of course I am,” Draco snaps.

“I think you should tell him.”

“I think I should leave.”

“Draco,” Pansy says, grabbing him by the shoulder, “Potter is not like the parade of boys and girls you’ve been fucking since us.”

“And how would you know that?” Draco spats. “Have you been having tea with him behind my back all these months?”

“No,” Pansy says patiently. “But I know you, and I know Potter has lasted longer than anyone you’ve ever been with in the last ten years.”

“Just,” Draco starts. “Just stay out of it,” he tells her right before grabbing a fistful of Floo powder and stalking to the fireplace.

 

That night Draco gets Potter up against a wall, grabs his hips and fucks him hard. He doesn’t use enough lube and barely works two fingers inside Potter before thrusting in. He holds Potter’s hips in place, and Potter groans, half in pain, half in pleasure.

“You always ask me to fuck you harder, Harry,” Draco whispers into the shell of Potter’s ear after Potter’s lets out a groan that’s more pain than pleasure. It makes Potter snort and push back against Draco’s hips. “Good boy,” Draco says, digging his fingers into Potter’s hips.

He’s not gonna last very long, and quite frankly, he couldn’t care less.

“You’re in a mood today,” Potter says, though his words come out through his teeth.

Draco adjust his angle a little, makes sure to thrust deeper. Potter moans deliciously, wet and low in his throat.

“I’m not doing it right if you can still speak,” Draco comments.

Potter laughs breathlessly, craning his neck so he can look at Draco when he asks, “Is that the idea here? To fuck my brains out?”

“I’ll have to try something else next time.”

“Tell me.”

“Aren’t you cheeky tonight,” Draco says, pinching Potter’s side.

Potter’s reaction is to face forward again, dropping his head between his shoulders. Draco smiles.

“That’s better,” Draco says. Then, “But I feel generous, so I’ll tell you anyway.”

“Please,” Potter moans under him.

“I’d spread you with my tongue,” Draco starts to tell Potter. “Rim you open until you’re so hard you could come without me touching you.”

“Fuck,” Potter says.

“I’d fuck you, too,” Draco agrees. “Once you’re sore and begging for it, I’d fuck you.”

Potter tightens around Draco’s cock, his back arching, head falling back.

“How does that sound, Harry?” Draco asks. “Think you’d be able to talk then?”

Shaking his head, Potter barely gets out the word “no” before he’s melting into another drawn out moan.

Draco has to make an actual effort now, to hold Potter up. “I wouldn’t think so, either.” He takes Potter’s cock in his hand, squeezing once. Then, into Potter’s ear, “Wanna come, Harry?”

Potter nods, breath hitching.

“Beg me.”

And despite the sweat and heat from being fucked almost raw, Potter still manages to blush, and something warm pools in Draco’s stomach because he wants to keep him. Keep Potter right here.

“Please,” Potter croaks. “Please.”

Draco bends to suck a bruise on the back of Potter’s back. “Mine,” Draco says, rubbing Potter’s cock.

Potter moans, his legs shaking so hard Draco reckons they’re gonna give out soon. He fucks Potter faster, pumping Potter’s cock while he’s at it. His rhythm is off and his thrusts are probably missing Potter’s sweet spot. But they’re both so far gone that Draco’s messy movements still manage to bring them both off.

Later, in bed, it’s Potter who nudges Draco awake, Potter who insists on a shower because they’re both a sticky mess. They step into the shower together, and Draco lets Potter wash him off. Draco finds the bruises he just left on Potter’s skin. He pushes his fingers into them, liking the way Potter winces right before he smiles.

“That was nice,” Potter tells him, wrapping a hand behind Draco’s neck.

They kiss until the water starts running cold and they have to get out, shivering.

 

It’s been exactly four days since Draco last saw Pansy. And the thing is, Draco hasn’t really had a proper argument with her in such a long time that he’s forgotten how to go about the whole thing. He keeps thinking about owling her in the middle of the day to tell her about the ridiculous clients at work before he remembers they’re not speaking. He hates not speaking to Pansy. Misses her more than he cares to admit.

It’s Potter — and the irony of this is not lost on Draco — who suggests he should apologise, after Draco spends their entire dinner alternating between bitching about Pansy and sulking because they’re having a row. But Draco won’t apologise. He’s not the one at fault. He’s not the one who stuck his nose in people’s private business.

“Private business?” Potter parrots like he cannot believe Draco right now. “She’s your friend, is she not?”

“So what.”

“So,” Potter starts, like the answer is obvious. He rolls his eyes at Draco when he just stares back. “Look, whatever it is, she’s probably just concerned.”

“It’s none of her bloody business,” Draco insists.

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s your problem,” Potter says. “I’d tell Ron and Hermione anything.”

That finally takes Draco’s mind off Pansy. “Anything?” he asks, taking off his shoe under the table. It’s a good thing the restaurant has tablecloths, this might get awkward otherwise, he thinks, rubbing his foot against Potter’s calf. “Really?”

Potter blushes slightly, shaking his head. “Well, I wouldn’t,” he starts, but stops as Draco finds his way to Potter’s inner thigh.

“Go on,” Draco nudges, smirking.

“Go into too much detail,” Potter finishes awkwardly.

They quickly drop their previous conversation. It’s a good thing they were almost done because now it’s only a matter of skipping dessert and asking for the bill before they can Apparate to Draco’s flat to have ridiculous sex on Draco’s couch.

 

It’d be immature not to go to the ball, Draco reckons as he fixes his shirt collar in front of the mirror. He has to go. It’s a matter of pride at this point. Though he plans on thoroughly ignoring Pansy’s nosy arse. He eyes the mask on his bed, it’s the last one he painted. Pansy owled it in the morning, though she didn’t specify whether she’d owled it as a peace offering or a taunt.

Either way, Draco grabs it on his way, thinking to hell with it.

There are far too many people at the club, and Draco has to squeeze through to get to the bar. As soon as he entered, he saw the masks he painted dancing about the room and his first thought was to get a hold of Pansy and brag. Then he remembered he’s not speaking to Pansy so he proceeded to make his way to the bar, where he sits now, trying, and failing rather miserably, to not sulk.

It’s how he ends up trying to drink himself silly. Which is a mistake. A really terrible mistake.

 

Draco has lost count of how many drinks he’s had when someone taps his shoulder.

“Hi,” the man says, and even in his intoxicated state, Draco can tell the bloke is beaming behind his mask.

He hates happy people tonight.

“Hello,” Draco replies, in what he hopes is a cold, unaffected tone and not a drunken slur.

“Don’t you remember me?” the bloke asks. Then, turning to the taller man by his side, the bloke adds, “He’s the dom who helped me out while you were gone last month, babe.”

Draco cringes at the pet name and wonders how in Merlin’s name he ever said yes to Bradley.

The taller man holds out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says.

Draco awkwardly shakes the hand offered to him and says a very eloquent, “Uh.”

“Bradley told me you were a delight,” the man says, moving into Draco’s personal space. “He talked so much I was almost jealous.”

“Uh.”

“Listen,” the man continues, not a bit preoccupied by Draco’s inability to speak. He touches a button on Draco’s shirt and says “wouldn’t you like to have him again? I’d love to watch.”

“Uh,” Draco starts to say.

He’s trying to form the words in his mind and then force his mouth to reproduce them when he catches a glimpse of a mask out of the corner of his eye. The mask, black-and-red with delicate golden filigree, disappears in the crowd, and Draco knows. He just knows that was Potter.

Well, shit.

“Excuse me,” Draco says, stumbling out of his chair.

Without a second glance to the pair propositioning him, Draco rushes through the crowd. There are too many people in the club that night, and Draco is going to murder Pansy with his bare hands if Potter doesn’t murder him first.

He opens almost every door to the rooms upstairs. He falters when, of all places, he finds Potter in the private room where they first started this thing.

He’s expecting Potter to be raging, to at the very least threaten to curse the life out of Draco. It’s what Draco would do, he thinks. Maybe.

What he’s not expecting is Potter sitting with his shoulders hunched, absent-mindedly twirling the mask in his hands. When he looks up, his green eyes are bright.

And in a split second Draco gets it. Gets what Pansy meant and gets why Potter isn’t trying to murder him. He feels like the rug has been pulled from under his feet, and he’s barely holding himself upright, and all he can think is _Harry_.

“Harry,” Draco starts, taking a step to him.

“I didn’t realise you’d seen me,” Harry says.

“What you heard—”

“I heard everything,” Harry explains. “I was looking for you when they came up to the bar.”

“Oh.” Then, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Harry asks the floor. “We agreed, didn’t we?”

And somehow, it’s even worse to hear his own arguments coming out of Harry’s mouth. Because it’s not okay. It was never okay, and Draco should’ve known that. He tells Harry as much. Apologises again. Feels awful the more Harry just sits there and stares at everything in the room but Draco.

“It’s fine,” Harry says after a while, and it’s a lie.

“It’s not fine,” Draco starts, “and I—”

But that’s when Harry snaps. “What the bloody fuck do you want me to say?” he asks, standing up. “That you and Pansy were right all along?” he is almost yelling now, “Do you understand how humiliating that is? That _you_ , of all the bloody people in the world, _you_ know what I—” Harry stops himself short, the colour draining from his face.

Draco has no trouble filling in the blank. _Want_. _Need_. He reaches out to touch Harry. He wants to tell him this doesn’t matter. That it meant nothing then and means even less now. Now that he knows.

But Harry shakes his head. “I need to be alone,” he says.

Draco wants very badly to go after him. Instead, he watches Harry Disapparate.

 

Eventually Draco stumbles out of the room. He has to be careful, mind every step because he’s too _something_ to walk upright. He thinks briefly about passing out in one of the rooms, reckons no one would mind, really. Then he starts thinking he might not even make it to a different room. That he might actually pass out on the corridor, when a pair of arms grabs him. They feel familiar enough, and when Draco looks up, it’s Pansy.

“Pansy,” Draco croaks, and his voice is hoarse and wrong.

Pansy props him up against the wall when Draco’s legs give out.

“You’re a right mess, darling,” she says, but there are no harsh feelings in her voice.

 

Draco wakes up in his own bed at some point in the early morning with no memory of how he got back to his flat. He figures it out soon enough when he sees that Pansy is fast asleep next to him. That’s when he remembers everything that happened and feels sick to his stomach. He has to throw over his covers to rush to the loo.

He’s hunched over his toilet, head pounding when Pansy comes in. She rubs his back as he empties the entire contents of his stomach. Then, when he’s done and feeling gross, he buries his face in Pansy shoulders, breathing hard. His shoulders shake, and he’d be screaming himself sore if his throat weren’t already on fire.

And Pansy, because she’s Pansy, because she knows him better than anyone else, probably better than he knows himself, Pansy holds him. She rubs circles on his back and holds him until he stops sobbing long enough to drag himself back to bed.

Later, Draco feels someone shaking him awake to drink some water. For a second, he’s convinced it’s Harry, and he’s just been having terrible nightmares. But then he makes out Pansy’s face and feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Except this one is all on him.

“Come on, Draco,” Pansy says, handing him some water and a vial. “For the dehydration,” she explains, “two drops.”

“Thank you,” Draco says in a low voice.

His mind clears as soon as he drinks the diluted potion, and immediately he wishes he hadn’t. He honestly thinks he prefers being drunk. It’s harder to think that way.

“Don’t be silly,” Pansy tells him, indicating Draco’s just been thinking out loud.

He’d be mortified if he weren’t also so stupidly sad.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Pansy asks.

“What is there to say?” Draco replies. “You were right. Happy?”

Pansy gives Draco a look that makes him feel distinctly like an ungrateful bastard, on top of everything else.

“You’re my best friend, Draco,” Pansy tells him. “Of course I’m not happy to see you like this.”

“I’m sorry. I just—” Draco stops himself. He has to take a deep breath to keep his voice from cracking. Then, “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Give it time, love,” is all the advice Pansy has for him.

 

Draco writes to Harry eventually. He can’t force himself to show up at Harry’s flat unannounced, not after what’s happened. He waits patiently, throws himself into work so he won’t panic over the fact that Harry hasn’t replied. It all ends with a single owl:

_You and Pansy were right. I can’t do this anymore. Don’t write back.  
-HP_

 

The days slowly wax into weeks, and instead of getting better, Draco feels worse. Instead of slowly getting over Harry, every time Draco thinks about him, he thinks about what an absolute idiot he was the entire time. Every day he wakes up thinking Harry is going to be there, and he isn’t. He never is, and all Draco can think is that this one is on him.

He did this and it hurts so much. It hurts so much that he wants to carve a hole where his heart should be and rip out whatever is there, throw it to the wolves. And maybe then, this will stop.

He drinks himself silly most weekends and every single Wednesday. He’s single-handedly redefining the term ‘functioning alcoholic’. But it’s so much easier when his head hurts. It’s so much easier when he’s too busy thinking about that pain than when his mind is clear for him to think and have an ocean of regrets.

He starts having nightmares again. Some nights, he wakes up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of long grey, almost dead, fingers gripping his shoulders. Some nights, he wakes up and he can’t breathe because he isn’t dreaming about red eyes but bright green ones. He can’t breathe, and he thinks he’ll asphyxiate from the pain. It takes hours to calm himself back down. And the hours of sleep he loses show up on his face the morning after in the form of dark circles under his eyes.

It takes three weeks of this. Three weeks of living but not really before Pansy puts a stop to it. She Floos to Draco’s flat, and when she finds him splayed on the couch, clearly drunk out of his mind, she crosses her arms and says, “Enough. This ends now.”

She thrusts a glass into his hand, watching him intently until he drinks the whole thing. It takes a while for the potion to work its magic after he’s been drinking so heavily for weeks.

She takes the glass from him when he’s done. “Give it a minute till it has some effect.”

She used to have a pitiful look for him in the past few days, but now she looks determined. Determined and… Well, she’s a vision of the Pansy who used to top him.

“I know it hurts,” she starts placatingly. “But at this rate, you’ll end up doing something even stupider than drinking until you blind yourself.”

“I won’t,” Draco protests.

“Did I say you could speak?” Pansy demands.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, you didn’t,” Draco replies on autopilot. He’s not even thinking about the fact that he’s falling back into old habits when he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Better.” Then, “We’re putting an end to this today. Any ideas?”

“I could drink again,” Draco suggests. He slurs his words, although Pansy’s potion is already making him feel in control of all his senses.

“Draco,” Pansy says, all seriousness, “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told you before. And if you still wanna act like a child after, I’ll leave you with Mr Ogden here.”

Draco stares forlornly at the empty bottle on the floor. He’s pretty sure that’s the third bottle he’s cleared this week and realises this is bad.

“Sorry,” Draco apologises again to Pansy, but this time he means it.

“You want to know why you stopped subbing after us?” she asks him, and that is not where Draco thought this conversation was going. He shakes his head, an acute feeling of dread taking over him. “I think you stopped because you could never bring yourself to trust someone like that again. Not after everything that happened.”

Pansy waits for her words to sink in.

They’re not exactly a shock. He doesn’t blush or start contradicting her. He doesn’t because somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s always known this. Always known the reason he’s never had a stable partner after Pansy is not because he likes to sleep around or because he hasn’t found the ‘right one’. It’s because he’s never put himself in the position to allow someone to care for him. Not like Pansy did. Well, not until Harry.

His breath hitches at the thought of Harry.

“You okay, darling?” Pansy asks him.

“Yeah, just—”

“I’m right?”

Draco chuckles bitterly. “Of course you’re right. You’re always bloody right.”

“It’s one of my better qualities, I’m told,” Pansy replies.

“Are you sure you heard them right?” Draco asks. “Sure they didn’t say most _annoying_?”

“I could spank you raw, Mr Malfoy,” Pansy says.

“I remember.”

“You better. I spent hours learning how to do it right for you.”

“I reckon you learnt for yourself.”

“Tomahto, tomato.”

Sighing, Draco drops his head on Pansy’s shoulder. It’s so easy with her. Though it wasn’t always so.

“Thank you for being here,” he tells her.

“So you don’t want me to leave?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

“You know,” Pansy says, nudging Draco so he sits up straighter. When she’s facing him and knows she’s got his full attention, she adds, “Just because you want someone to care for you, it doesn’t make you a bad dom. Or even mean you shouldn’t continue topping.”

Draco swallows. “I miss it, sometimes,” he admits for the first time in years.

He had thought it would go away with time. Thought he could only choose one of the two, and he convinced himself he could never sub for anyone other than Pansy ever again.

“I know you do,” she says. “I’m glad you’re telling me, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

“So you don’t think it makes me a bad dom, wanting it?” Draco murmurs with his eyes closed. He’s too afraid of what he’ll find on Pansy’s face.

“I think it makes you human, Draco,” Pansy replies. “Everyone is different, love. And that doesn’t mean your way is worse or better than any other. You just have to find the person who fits with you.”

“Do you think Ha- I mean. Do you reckon Potter would’ve?”

“Would’ve topped you? You never asked him?”

Draco shakes his head. Of course he hadn’t. He hadn’t even wanted to admit that to himself. Then again, there seems to be a few things he’s willing to admit now that he wasn’t willing to say before. Like how terribly in love with Harry he is.

And he knows Pansy is right about doing stupid things if he continues down this road. Knows he ought to do something about it. So he starts, awkwardly because he’s forgotten how to ask for these things for himself, “Do you think…”

Pansy smiles knowingly at him. “Why do you think I came here?” she asks. “But you better ask me properly. You know how I like it.”

At this, Draco smiles. He forgets, sometimes, how much he actually learnt from her.

Taking a deep breath, Draco looks at Pansy in the eye and asks, “Will you tie me up?”

“Of course, darling,” she says, and they both get to it.

The space of Draco’s living room is ample, perfect for suspension. He takes off all his clothes, leaves them neatly folded on his sofa. Pansy blinds him first, then she starts.

There’s an artistry to tying ropes on a human body, an artistry that is more satisfying when you take the time to do it by hand. And that’s how Pansy’s always done it, how Draco’s always liked it. She moves slowly about his body, tying knots that Draco feels even more now that he can’t see.

Pansy takes her time with the rope, asking Draco how tight or loose he wants the knots. Her touch is delicate, her fingers ghosting over Draco’s skin. She doesn’t touch his cock or his arse. This isn’t about sex.

“Ready?” she asks him when Draco’s hands are securely tied behind his back.

Draco nods. A moment later, he feels himself being pulled up, his feet leaving the ground. Pansy raises him slowly up in the air. He has no idea how far off the ground he is when he’s finally horizontal. He trusts Pansy to know for him.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

He’s swinging in the air, the movement lulling him. “Good,” he answers. “This is good.”

“I’m glad,” she replies.

She pushes him slowly so he keeps swinging the entire time. It’s a very slight movement, one Draco is familiar with. One he can get lost in.

 

Later, when Pansy is rubbing Draco’s joints as Draco lies on his bed, he feels better. Distinctly better. Like he’d twisted his body into a tight knot that just got released.

“I needed that,” Draco tells Pansy.

“I know. It’s why I came.” She takes a moment to look at him. “I figured it’d be all right for the last time.”

“Last time?”

“Yes,” Pansy answers, truthful. “I promised Luna it’d be a one-time only.”

“And she said yes?”

“You needed me. She understood.”

“And if I need you again?” Draco asks.

“You won’t,” Pansy answers with confidence.

“Sometimes, I reckon you fancy yourself a psychic, Pans.”

“No,” Pansy says. “I know you won’t need me. You needed me now because you wouldn’t admit this to yourself. You needed me because you’ve been refusing to face the fact that you don’t allow yourself to trust.”

“And now I know?”

“And now you know, love.”

They fall asleep on Draco’s bed shortly after.

 

It’s always easy with Pansy but that’s because they worked so hard at it in the beginning. It’s easy to forget how hard things can be.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII.**

Draco stares at Harry’s front door. The trees are leafless at this time of the year, and everything looks rather gloomy. But Harry lives amongst Muggles who take Christmas very seriously. The whole street is decorated in red, green and gold. The Muggles have put up mistletoes and little winged people with trumpets on their front doors. Harry has a single bow on his, one that looks decidedly half-arsed in the company of every other door on the street.

Draco rings the bell.

He’s worried Harry won’t be home, worried he’ll have company. He worries Harry will throw open the door and shut it in Draco’s face.

When Harry answers the door, Draco knows he should’ve had more faith.

“I know you said not to write back,” Draco says. “But you didn’t say anything about coming here.”

He wonders if it’s the wrong thing to say when Harry just stands there. But then, Draco's heart skips a beat as Harry steps aside to let him in.


	8. Chapter 8

**epilogue.**

It’s later, months later. He feels dirty, as he sometimes does after work pushes his wrong buttons. Feels tired after a week full of all the wrong memories. He tries not to show it, but the words he doesn’t say start showing on his face.

He comes home one night and flops face down on their bed. He’s not really thinking, just being, when he feels the bed dip.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry says, his voice soft, “do you want to get naked for me?”

Startled, Draco turns around, searching for something in Harry’s face, because they don’t do this much; because Draco still doesn’t know how to ask.

Harry is digging his thumb into Draco’s shoulder, where there’s a tight knot that’s been steadily growing for these past days.

“You don’t have to talk,” Harry tells him.

Draco opens his mouth but Harry places his finger to his lips, shaking his head. Draco sucks in a breath, nodding. His heart drums faster as he pushes off the bed to remove his clothes, his fingers tingling with anticipation.

“On your stomach,” Harry orders, and Draco does as he's told. He puts his arms behind his back, expecting to be tied up. But Harry moves him so Draco’s arms are by his side. “No,” Harry says, “you’re not allowed to move, but I won't tie you up. You’ll have to do it on your own. Can you?”

Draco nods against the pillows.

“Good,” Harry says, his fingers ghosting over Draco’s back. Then, “If you want to stop say red.”

“Yes,” Draco says, and it's a moment before Harry moves.

Then he’s being blindfolded, and Harry is spreading something on the soles of his feet, an unguent of some sort. It’s cold and flowery, lavender, he thinks. It tingles, but Draco remains perfectly still, as Harry ordered.

“Okay?” Harry asks, despite the fact that he hasn't done much beside massage Draco's feet.

Draco nods, and Harry moves on. He rubs Draco’s ankles, working his way up Draco's calves. He works Draco’s muscles slowly, almost too soft at first. He probably asks Draco if he’s okay more than a more experienced person would. It's a lulling sort of pace that Draco honestly cannot say he minds.

Like that, slow and always keeping close, Harry reaches Draco’s back.

“We should've done this sooner,” Harry says as he makes Draco wince when his fingers try to work the knotted muscles.

It should take a considerable effort from Draco to stay still now but it's easy, so easy, to relax into Harry’s touch. The blindfold makes Draco focus on Harry's movements. On Harry's touch, on his presence that seems to surround every inch of Draco's body.

He doesn't know how long it takes Harry to work his way up Draco's body, but it's long enough to start feeling the warmth of Harry’s body as part of his own. His muscles are loose, pliable when he feels the cold air on him, feels the acute loss of Harry's body.

Blindfolded, he cannot tell what Harry is doing, and the cold air startles Draco out of his calm. Almost involuntarily, a whine escapes him, and Draco blushes with embarrassment. But Harry doesn't mock him.

Instead, Harry places a warm hand on Draco's hips and says, “I'm just getting something.”

Before Draco can make another complaining noise, he feels Harry's finger on his arse, circling his hole, teasing. Draco's breath hitches. He still feels Harry all over him but now Harry's warm breath is making his breath quicken with desire.

And then Harry bites Draco's arse right before he slips his tongue inside him. It's almost impossible to not move, takes all of Draco's concentration not to curl his toes or grab a fistful of sheets.

Harry blows cool air on him and Draco shivers, unable to help himself.

"I've got you, Draco," Harry murmurs against Draco's skin.

And there is no doubt in Draco's mind, not a single doubting thought, that Harry is right. He takes a deep breath, letting himself feel Harry, letting himself be loved.

Harry works his body in the best way he knows, teasing and pulling until Draco is convinced he's gonna come like this, untouched, with Harry all over him. He's not wrong. He's been breathing hard, heart pounding for Merlin knows how long, and all it takes is Harry nailing his prostate for what feels like that hundredth time and then that's it. He loses track of surroundings, feels his orgasm like wilfully throwing himself into the abyss.

He's panting, smiling too hard when Harry takes the blindfold off his eyes. Harry's face is the first thing that comes into focus for Draco. And as he stares at Harry's green eyes, Draco's stomach fills with butterflies with how much he _loves_ this man.

After, Harry waves his wand over Draco's body to clean him up. Draco would rather shower but his muscles still feel like jelly. Besides, just lying in bed with Harry is nice, too.

“How was that?” Harry asks him after a while.

Draco nuzzles against Harry’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist. He feels light and loose. And grateful. So fucking grateful he’s found Harry.

“Thank you,” is all he says.

“I like doing this for you,” Harry tells him. “Makes you belong to me even more.”

Draco props himself up to kiss Harry deep and slow.

 

The flowers are blooming again.

After Draco moved in with Harry, he started planting some of his favourites — yellow and purple tulips — to brighten Harry’s garden. It was the right season to plant them, too, Draco told Harry as he explained how tulips could only be planted in winter.

Harry laughs at him when spring rolls around and he first sees Draco tending to the new pots, though he stops very quickly when Draco starts threatening to throw all his fertiliser in Harry’s face. It’s nice to have a house, Draco thinks while he takes care of his tulips and Harry’s multi-coloured lilies. He’s very proud of his handiwork, thinks it’s about time their house stopped being the sad one on the street.

“But you don’t care what Muggles think,” Harry states.

“Of course not,” Draco replies. “It’s a matter of pride.”

Harry squints his eyes at him, clearly not believing Draco. “Right.” He’s leaning against their front door, watching Draco work. “Come here,” Harry says.

Draco looks around himself before taking out his wand to quickly finish what he’s been doing by hand. Harry looks exasperated at this, probably because he’s told Draco eleven thousand times not to take out his wand in the middle of their street. Draco simply smirks.

“You’re impossible,” Harry says, but he’s smiling.

“I thought we’d established _you_ were the impossible one,” Draco counters, circling his arms around Harry’s waist.

“We’ll have to _Obliviate_ half the neighbourhood because of you one of these days.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Like I said, impossible.”

“Don’t you mean incorrigible?” Draco asks, touching his nose to Harry’s.

“That, too,” Harry concedes before kissing Draco square on the mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end! Thank you so much for reading :) I'm aware this fic might raise a few questions, so feel free to reach out, I love discussing these things!
> 
> Also, I dunno if anyone's interested, but if you're wondering what Harry's POV would be like in all of this, you can pretty much listen to the lyrics of Sam Smith's [Stay with Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pB-5XG-DbAA). The more I listen to it, the more I convince myself this is true. Here, have some proof:
> 
>  
> 
> _Guess it's true, I'm not good at a one-night stand_  
>  _But I still need love 'cause I'm just a man_  
>  _These nights never seem to go to plan_  
>  _I don't want you to leave, will you hold my hand?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Why am I so emotional?_  
>  _No, it's not a good look, gain some self-control  
>  _And deep down I know this never works  
>  _But you can lay with me so it doesn't hurt___


End file.
